


Rose of War

by extraneous_accessories



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M, WWIAu, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2018-05-22 18:46:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6090568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extraneous_accessories/pseuds/extraneous_accessories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set near the end of the First World War, this explores the relationship between Poe and Luke from opposite sides of the trenches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [to the sky without wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609887) by [leupagus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus). 



> A gigantic thank you and many hugs to wobblycompetencies and jellyfishfire for their inspiring headcanons, proofreading, help with the twister scenes, and long conversations in all caps about how much we love trenchfire fic and how much we love playing in trashfire hell. *highfive* you cool cats, this is a hell of a lot of fun:)

**November 17th, 1915. The Somme, France.**

The rain was pissing down from the sky as Oberst Luke Skywalker's monoplane landed on the airbase behind the German front lines at the Somme. He cut the engine and disembarked as quickly as possible, ready to change out his wet pilot's gear for something warm and dry. He would rather be back at Headquarters in Belgium, but his sister's instructions had been very clear. 

The battle of the Somme was an utter disaster. It had left their troops in complete disarray and morale at an all-time low. "They need you, Luke," Leia had said in that tone that meant the meeting was over. "You're a hero to them, one of the greatest flying aces in the Luftstreitkrafte." When he had ventured to protest, she had fixed him with a hard gaze. "We lost 27 pilots, in a day, Luke. They need to see your face, now more than ever. If we don't win the fight against this mutiny, then we will lose the war overnight." Her grave voice had touched something in him, and so here he was, soaking wet on an airstrip, wishing more than ever that this damned war could come to an end. 

As Leia had predicted, the Kommandant had greeted him with an excitement near to awe, ushering him inside the abandoned hall that they were using for headquarters with a textbook salute and a series of obsequious questions about his health and his journey. Luke answered, "Yes, Herr Kommandant. Fine, thank you, Herr Kommandant. Yes, Herr Kommandant, I am sure they will be satisfactory," along with a dozen other mindless phrases as they carried on into the officer's quarters. 

"You will want to inspect our Group, Herr Skywalker?" the Kommandant asked, as Luke stripped off his wet flight jacket and goggles. 

"Of course. I will see to it first thing in the morning." He tried to adopt a firmer tone. "Thank you for your welcome, Herr Kommandant, I will be quite fine here on my own until morning." 

At last, with many protestations and invitations to summon him should he have any needs at all, the unctuous man finally took his leave, pulling the door closed behind him, and Luke was alone. 

*

Thankfully, the morning of the inspection dawned cold but clear, with the iron grey clouds of the evening before having moved off to the east. As Luke strode along the lines of men stood at attention, he felt the back of his neck prickling. The men were well-disciplined, but he could feel their pride and admiration practically radiating off of them, so palpable that it made him somewhat nauseous. He did not want this. He had never wanted this. Any man here, he knew, would have leapt into battle at his command, risking life, limb, and anything else they were in possession of, for the famous Luke Skywalker. He did not deserve such devotion, and he hated Leia for using it to her advantage. 

As he neared the end of the line, he felt something different. Something…refreshing. A pair of insolent eyes boring into his back from the direction of the prisoner barracks. 

"Dismissed, Rittmeister," he said, his attention already wandering away from the airstrip. 

"What kind of bird you fly in on, Oberst?" asked a voice in rusty but well taught German. Luke turned toward the single cell attached to the outer wall of the guardhouse. A short, but well-muscled young man stood leaning against the bars of the cell, a crooked smile on his lips. His dark curls bounced as he ducked his head towards Luke's plane, parked at the edge of the airstrip. 

"She looks like a beauty," he added, his light brown eyes sparkling with mischief. Then, as though uncertain whether he had been understood, he pointed to the plane and repeated, "What's her make?" 

Luke took a step towards the barracks, studying the man closely. He could feel the Rittmeister at his side, and turned, addressing him in a confiding tone. "Who is this man, Rittmeister?" 

The Rittmeister looked aggrieved. "A prisoner, sir. A British pilot captured a week from Wednesday. I am sorry to say that he and his navigator were the only ones of his flight to survive the battle. He will not gain us much on a prisoner exchange, but he has been remarkably…sociable during his time here." 

"I see," Luke murmured. He crossed the distance to the barracks and looked closely at the man behind the bars of the cell. It had not, Luke surmised, been the man's best week. His cheeks were lean, and he could see the dark circles beneath the his eyes. And, now that he took the time to look, he was not so much a man as a boy, one just on the edge of manhood, though he clearly tried to compensate for his lack of years with a cocky swagger and a confident attitude. Interesting. 

"She is a Fokker E.I.," he said finally, seeing that the boy was quite uncomfortable with his leisured inspection. In response to the boy's grimace, he continues, "an older model, but one that still serves me well." 

"A high ranking fellow like yourself, I would have thought you'd have snatched up one of those Albatrosses, first chance you got," the boy said. 

"I see no reason to cast off a craft that is still in perfectly good working order," Luke responded. He knew he sounded huffy, but couldn't seem to help himself. There was something about the boy that…unsettled him. He took refuge in a formal tone. "What is your name, soldier?" 

The boy withdrew from the bars and snapped him a salute, in the British style, but very fine. Something in him seemed to respond to the voice of authority. "Flight Sergeant Poe Dameron, Herr Oberst," he said, staring at a space of air just over Luke's left shoulder. 

"At ease, Sergeant," Luke said softly, resisting the urge to smile. He was keen, to say the least. "How old are you?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him. 

"I couldn't have enlisted unless I was seventeen, Oberst," the boy responded, that strange half grin returning to his face. 

"That wasn't what I asked you." 

The boy's eyes slid to the side. "I'm seventeen, Oberst."

"Of course you are." Luke was unable to keep the smile from his voice this time. 

"Pardon me, sir, but," the boy grinned up at him, "is there any place a fellow might get a cigarette in this shithole?" 

In spite of himself, Luke laughed. "It certainly is a shithole, flight sergeant, but I will see what I can do. Are you well fed?" 

"Sir?" 

"Come, Flight Sergeant, we are German gentlemen, not animals. Prisoners of war are to be treated with respect. Besides, we are hardly able to use you in a prisoner exchange if you starve." 

"I am as well fed as any of your men, I'm sure, Oberst," the boy said, his eyes dark and serious. 

"Point taken," Luke admitted with a grimace. "I will see what I can do about those cigarettes."

*

Poe watched as the German Group Captain walked away towards the old town hall they were using for headquarters. "Nice chap, for a German, he said over his shoulder." 

Bertrand Brown VIII, or Bertie, to his friends, looked up from the long strands of grass he had plucked from the side of the guard shed. "He looks pretty old to me." 

"Getting old doesn't mean you stop being nice," Poe returned. He sat down on the bench beside his co-pilot. 

"Are you meaning nice as in 'he'll bring you cigarettes' or nice as in the other thing?" Bertie asked, casting Poe a suspicious glance. 

Poe's grin nearly split his face in half. "Does it matter?" 

Bertie groaned. "He's German, Poe. You're British. We're at war. Snap out of it." 

In an instant, Poe's grin was replaced by a look of pure innocence. "What, you think he won't bring me a cigarette?" 

"Augh, forget it, you're hopeless." 

Poe gazed after the retreating back of the Group Captain. "You might be right about that." 

*

It took him most of the day, but as the sun set low in the west, casting a pink glow over the wings of the aircraft lined up along the airstrip, the Group Captain did return with cigarettes. He smiled when he saw the look on the Poe's face. 

"These were hard to come by," he said, "I trust you'll appreciate them." 

"Yes, sir!" Poe agreed readily, taking the proffered bundle of cigarettes from the Group Captain's gloved hand. Then, very carefully, he split them in two, stuffing three of them in the front pocket of his shirt. From the remaining half, he drew two, offering one back to the Group Captain. He smiled again. "Thank you, no," he said kindly, "I have my own habit," he pulled a well-worn pipe from his breast pocket, "but I appreciate the sentiment." He struck a match, and held it out, lighting Poe's cigarette. Poe took a deep draw, feeling the warm, smooth caress of the smoke as it flooded his lungs. He let it all back out in a contented sigh. 

"You're a life-saver, sir," he said with feeling. 

The Group Captain chuckled as he lit his own pipe. "Hardly, Sergeant, but you are quite welcome." 

Poe watched the man's long hands as he replaced his matchbox in his coat pocket. Strong, elegant, and aristocratic hands, he couldn't help noticing. "Tell me, sir, what makes you such a believer in the Fokker?" he asked. 

The Group Captain's eyebrows rose, and he seemed to consider Poe's question very seriously. "I suppose that, in part, it is the model I learned in, and I am not quick to change," he said after a while, "but…well, let's say I'm sentimental." 

"You mean she's flown you safe for so long you can't quite bear to let her go?" the words were said before he had hardly thought about them. 

The Group Captain shot him a surprised glance. "Yes, something like that," he said softly. 

Poe nodded. "I was the same with my first Vickers. She was a lovely lady." 

"Was?" 

"She dumped me in a German trench last week," Poe said with a shrug. "I knew she was getting old and that she'd let me down some day, but I hadn't thought it would be that soon." 

"You mean you knew she was going to stall?" came an outraged voice from the bench. Bertie had sat up, lifting his hat from his eyes and looking at Poe with an expression of horrified disbelief. 

"I didn't know that was going to happen," Poe muttered. He pulled the three cigarettes from his breast pocket and passed them to Bertie, replacing them with his two. 

"Well I wouldn't put it past you," Bertie grumbled, taking the proffered cigarettes. 

"Now, that's not a fair thing to say." Poe's face coloured in embarrassment. "You know I always looked after her and kept her in as good a condition as I could." 

Bertie waved a dismissive hand as he accepted a match from the Group Commander. 

"After a certain point, maintenance is no longer a security," the Group Commander said equably, as though trying to smooth Poe's ruffled feathers. "Care can only take a craft so far, particularly when she's being shot at regularly." 

"Fair," Poe conceded as Bertie returned to the bench. "So, turnabout's fair play, Oberst," he said to the Group Commander, a smile on his face, "I told you my name and rank, what's yours?" 

"You already know my rank." Poe shot him a look. "You know what I mean." 

The Group Commander sighed. "My name is Luke Skywalker," he muttered. 

"No shit?" Poe demanded. 

"I'm sorry?" the Group Commander seemed startled by his reaction, and then Poe remembered that expressions like that didn't tend to translate very well. 

"You're not, you know…you're telling the truth?" he amended, stumbling a bit over the words. 

The Group Commander gave him a strange look. "Why on earth would I lie to you about something like that?" 

"Because you didn't want to tell me the truth, same as anyone else?" Poe was trying to contain his excitement. He was standing here smoking and, if he were being honest, flirting a bit, with Luke. Fucking. Skywalker. Best flying ace in the Luftstreitkrafte. 

"You told me the truth about your name and rank, did you not?" Skywalker said mildly. Thankfully, he looked like he hadn't noticed the sudden flush in Poe's cheeks. Or he was politely pretending not to notice. 

"Well yeah, but I'm not…you know…" 

Skywalker shrugged, "I suppose not, but in light of your honesty with me, how else is a gentleman to behave?" 

"Uh…" 

"Precisely." Skywalker put his pipe back into a coat pocket, and then he looked up, meeting Poe's eyes. He smiled gently. "I trust you enjoyed your cigarette, Sergeant Dameron." 

 

**December 25th, 1915. The Somme, France.**

Luke wasn't really sure why he had spent his evenings of the last two months standing outside the bars of Sergeant Dameron's cell, he really wasn't. The boy was insolent, arrogant, and stubborn enough for fifty men. And yet, when he spoke about aircraft design, the superiority of British engineering, or the feel of the wind rushing past as he piloted his Vickers, something strange seemed to come over him. A kind of light suffused his features, and Luke found that, inevitably, his heart was lighter after their conversations, no matter how many letters he had had to sign telling German mothers that their sons had been blown to pieces by French machine guns. 

"Happy Christmas, sir!" Dameron greeted him as he strode into the guardhouse. 

"The same to you, Herr Dameron." He could feel a smile coming to his face as he saw Poe's evident pleasure at his visit. 

"Brought me any poetry to suffer through, Herr Skywalker?" Dameron asked with a smirk, mocking Luke's formal greeting, as he always did. 

"While I am certain that your education will suffer for it," Luke said with pretended formality, "I have decided that you should be allowed one day's respite." 

"Thank God, I'm not sure I could have handled Goethe on Christmas." Dameron spoke lightly, but Luke could tell that there was something more serious behind that remark. He knew how hard it was for him to spend Christmas away from his own family, he couldn't imagine spending it in a foreign prison cell. 

"I did, however, bring you some Yeats." Luke pulled the book of poetry from under his arm and passed it through the bars. Dameron grimaced slightly and opened the cover of the book. Luke saw his eyes widen. 

"Sir, you really shouldn't have," he breathed, taking the bar of German chocolate out from where it had hidden under the dust cover. 

"Well, I'll hardly come away the worse from it," Luke said with a smile, "I'm expecting you to share." 

"Of course, sir!" Dameron unwrapped the chocolate and began breaking it into pieces. "Where did you manage to get a hold of something like this?" he asked, passing Luke half the bar. He took his own portion and halved it again, wrapping one piece carefully back in the foil. 

"A Christmas gift from my sister in Belgium," Luke said, savoring his first bite of the chocolate. He looked up and saw Dameron staring at him, a look of incomprehension stamped on his young face. "What is it, Herr Dameron?" he asked, somewhat concerned. 

"Sir, you're sharing your Christmas gift with me." he said softly. 

Luke raised his eyebrows. "Yes?" 

"Well…I mean…" Dameron trailed off. He looked down at the chocolate, and then back up into Luke's face. "Sir I'm a British POW. And you're…well, you." A flush suffused his cheeks. Luke sighed, determined to silence the voice in the back of his mind that reminded him the boy had a point. He wasn't really interested in following that line of thought to its logical conclusion. 

"Sergeant, there is only enough there for two men, three at most," he said briskly. "Who else would I share it with in this…how did you put it last month? Shithole?" 

To his relief, Dameron laughed. "I suppose you're right, sir. I mean, I suppose your lads would be elbowing over themselves for the opportunity to share with you. It could turn ugly," he added, his face serious. 

It was Luke's turn to laugh. "You're probably right," he said, ignoring the helpless feeling that rose up when he realized just how right. "Now, eat up, Herr Dameron, and then choose your evening's dose of education." 

Dameron grinned and took a bite of the chocolate. His eyes closed in pleasure, and Luke suddenly felt strange for watching him. 

"I think you should choose, sir." Luke looked up and saw Dameron handing the book back through the bars. "I mean, you're obviously the expert." 

"You mean you never studied Yeats?" Luke was surprised. 

"I'm sure we did at some point, but I'll be damned if I can remember, sir. I always get him mixed up with Keats. Must be the spelling." 

"Some days you horrify me, Sergeant," Luke admonished, thumbing through the book. He stopped on a selection at random. Perching himself on the guard's stool, he began to read. 

"Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the world!  
The tall thought-woven sails, that flap unfurled  
Above the tide of hours, trouble the air,  
And God's bell buoyed to be the water's care  
While hushed from fear, or loud with hope, a band  
With blown, spray-dabbled hair gather at hand.  
Turn if you may from battles never done,  
I call, as they go by me one by one,  
Danger no refuge holds, and war no peace,  
For him who hears love sing and never cease,  
Beside her clean-swept hearth, her quiet shade:  
But gather all for whom no love hath made  
A woven silence, or but came to cast  
A song into the air, and singing past  
To smile on the pale dawn; and gather you 

Who have sought more than is in rain or dew  
Or in the sun and moon, or on the earth,  
Or sighs amid the wandering, starry mirth,  
Or comes in laughter from the sea's sad lips;  
And wage God's battles in the long gray ships.  
The sad, the lonely, the insatiable,  
To these Old Night shall all her mystery tell;  
God's bell has claimed them by the little cry  
Of their hearts, that may not live nor die.  
Rose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!  
You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled  
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring  
The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.  
Beauty grown sad with its eternity  
Made you of us, and of the dim gray sea.  
Our long ships loose thought-woven sails and wait,  
For God has bid them share an equal fate;  
And when at last defeated in His wars,  
They have gone down under the same white stars,  
We shall no longer hear the little cry  
Of our sad hearts, that may not live nor die." 

His voice died away and they sat in silence for several long moments.  
"A bit depressing for Christmas Day, isn't it, sir?" Dameron said at last.  
"I suppose it is, at that," Luke acknowledged. "Though I would wager that this is hardly the most cheerful Christmas day either of us has ever spent. "

Dameron shrugged, "It's not that bad." Luke stared at him over his wire-rimmed spectacles. "Not that bad?" 

"I mean I've had better meals," Dameron continued, "but the company this year is actually pretty decent."  
Luke laughed and shook his head. "Herr Dameron, you are insufferable." 

"So I've been told, sir," he said with a grin. Slowly, the smile slid from his face, and he suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Look, sir," he said slowly, "I have something I need to tell you." Luke frowned. 

"Go on." Dameron sighed, running a distracted hand through his curly hair. It had grown long over the last month, Luke noticed. 

"You've been really good to me, sir," he said at last, "and, as a thank you, I wanted to offer you a chance to come with me." 

Luke raised an eyebrow, taking in the bars. "Going somewhere, are you, Herr Dameron?" 

The boy looked him squarely in the eyes. "Sir, I won't be here tomorrow. I feel honour bound to tell you that I intend to escape. And, as I said, I want to offer you the chance to come with me." Luke felt a tightness in his chest as he saw the earnestness in the boy's eyes. 

"Oh dear," he sighed. "Sergeant," he began, "I have enjoyed your company this past month, and have treated you the way that a gentleman in my position should treat a well-respected peer." He looked up, fleetingly, into Dameron's brown eyes. "And I do respect you, Sergeant." 

"Thank you, sir." 

"But we are in very different positions, you understand." Luke continued, "I have a duty to my men. And you to yours." He saw Dameron's jaw tighten. 

"Sir," he ground out, "Your men are freezing and starving." He looked up at Luke, his brown eyes blazing, "We both know that this war is pointless. You've told me yourself, sir, that there can be no victory for either side. The time for glory and duty is long past." 

Luke shook his head. "That's not what duty means, Herr Dameron," he said gently. He rose from the stool, coming to stand nearer the bars of the cell. "I agree, this is not a glorious war, nor is it very likely to be. We are both sides struggling through the mud and blood like pigs." He chose to ignore the sudden hopeful look on Dameron's face. "But where glory ends is where duty begins. You are right. My men are freezing and they are starving. And that is exactly why I cannot abandon them, even if I wanted to." 

"You…you don't want to?" 

Luke looked down into the youthful, confused face. "No, Herr Dameron, I do not. And not because I don't enjoy your company," he added with a small smile. "As I said, we live very different lives, and must make different considerations." Hesitantly, he laid a hand on the young man's arm. "Thank you for your offer," he said, "It means a great deal to me that you would trust me with this confidence." He took the book of Yeats and placed it on the bar of the cell, folding Dameron's hands over it. "I wish you all the best. Perhaps one day, when this hell is over, we will meet again." 

Dameron looked up at him then, and Luke felt a shiver crawl up his spine at the determination he saw in those eyes. "I doubt it very much, sir," he said quietly. "So I suppose I had better do this now." 

Luke was halfway through asking what he meant when he felt Dameron's hand grasp his tie and pull him close, his lips crushing insistently against his own. Luke inhaled sharply, heat suffusing his face as he felt Poe's tongue exploring his mouth, tasted the sweetness of the chocolate again . It was a shock again when he pulled away, those mischievous brown eyes sparkling once more. 

"Thank you for everything, Herr Skywalker," Dameron smiled. 

Luke found that his words were stuck somewhere in his throat. Before he could summon them back, Dameron had ducked out the door into the yard to wake his co-pilot. 

"You are most welcome," he whispered into the silence.  
*

**January 17th, 1917. Spa, Belgium.**

Luke strode into the fine dining room of the Mayor of Spa's sumptuous house, the brass buttons on his dress uniform sparkling in the candlelight. His sister's table was always magnificent, but it awed Luke that, even here, in a wet, muddy backwater in Belgium, she had managed to put on a display worthy of the finest mansions in Berlin. Polished silver, china, and crystal goblets. It almost, he reflected cynically, made you forget that men were starving in a muddy ditch less than thirty miles away, eating rats the size of cats instead of filet mignon in sauce béarnaise. Almost. His mouth set in a grim line as he approached the small cluster of men and women around the cocktail bar. 

Leia, resplendent in a gown of white muslin, set her wineglass down on the side table and stepped towards him, placing her arms on his shoulders and kissing him gently on both cheeks. "Brother, it's good to see you back," she murmured in his ear.  
"And it's good to be back, sister." She took is hand possessively in hers, and led him toward the bar.

"Come, you must tell me everything." Luke smiled despite himself.  
"There is little enough to tell," he demurred as she poured him a generous splash of whiskey. "You were right, the Somme was a disaster, as we all knew that it would be. I did my part to help boost morale. We camped in our muddy ditches for two months, and now I've returned." He shrugged, taking a sip of the whiskey and feeling it burn all the way down. 

Leia watched him carefully over the rim of her wineglass. "That's all? I heard tell that you had some excitement with a captured British pilot." Her eyes danced, "By all reports it was a daring escape. Herr Schmidt tells me you had to shoot someone." 

Luke gave a heavy sigh, swirling the whiskey around in his glass and trying not to let his annoyance show. She was baiting him, and he knew it. "I'm not sure what you heard, but yes, we did have a British pilot as a prisoner for a little over a month," he allowed. 

"And the escape? Come brother, regale me with the exciting tale," Leia probed. There was a look in her eyes that Luke recognized, and he didn't like it. He realized that conversations elsewhere in the room had died away. He felt the prickle of curious eyes on his back and shrugged. 

"Hardly an exciting tale," he said evenly, looking his sister straight in the eye. "The boy bribed one of the guards and made his way across no-man's land in the dead of night. Of course, when the escape was discovered, I naturally launched an inquiry. The guard in question gave himself up, and with very little encouragement, I must say," he allowed a hardness to creep into his tone. "When I discovered the truth of the matter, military law left me very little choice. The guard was shot by firing squad without delay." 

He didn't tell Leia how much it had stung, when the guard had confessed to being bought with 'favours' from the young and handsome British pilot. And how the book of Yeats had been lying on the bench in the empty cell the next morning, while the taste of Belgian chocolate had lingered in his mouth. 

"A boy?" Leia mused, taking a sip from her wineglass as she studied Luke. "I heard that he was very attractive for a boy. And that he was quite friendly, for a prisoner." 

Luke scoffed. "A silly boy, and barely that," he said disparagingly, "Couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut." 

"They're all the same when they're that age, aren't they?" called a voice from the entrance to the large room. Luke turned, a grin already forming on his face as he saw Rittmeister Solo enter the room, his dress jacket somewhat in disarray. 

"Good to have you back with us, Herr Skywalker," he said, enfolding Luke's hand in a firm grip, an earnest smile on his face. "Hard work out here, shooting up Brits and Frogs all on my own." 

Luke laughed as the babble of conversation returned. "Well, I doubt you need my help for that, Herr Solo, but I'm glad to be back." 

Solo's face grew serious. "I wasn't kidding with you, Luke, we're in pretty desperate straits. We needed you back." 

Luke placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, "I know, Han. Don't worry, I'm sure high command will have some brilliant new tactical plan to get us out of this mess." 

Leia, appeased for the moment, entered the conversation by placing a soft kiss on her husband's cheek. "We know the only way to win this is to take a quick offensive," she said in a matter-of fact tone. "The Central powers have the money and the supplies to outlast us a long as they like. It's a solid push forward or nothing." 

Luke nodded. "I agree," he allowed, "the only question is whether or not our fearless leaders do as well." Leia frowned at his cynical tone. 

"I'm sure they will come up with something appropriately…glorious," Luke amended his tone, and affected a light-hearted smile. But glory, he knew, was well out of the question. 

**January 19th, 1917. The Somme, France.**

Poe lay in his bunk, utterly exhausted. Every muscle ached. He loved flying, he was certain that he always would, but he hoped one day to do slightly less of it than he had been doing recently. The moment he and Bertie had stumbled back into their trench, it seemed, there had been one mission after another for them to fly, between reconnaissance escorts and bombing raids, they had barely had a moment's rest. 

In some ways, he didn't mind so much. The constant hectic pace kept his mind in a comfortably neutral place, not giving it the time or energy to stray into dangerous territory. Like considering how many corpses he had seen since the start of the war. Or wondering when death would find him. One thing it didn't save him from, however, was the nightmares. He would have thought that he would dream about battles, with their blood, noise, and gunfire, but he seldom did. Instead, he dreamt of the quiet things. The staring, glassy look in the eyes of dead men. The cold. The rats. He shivered. 

"You awake, Bertie?" he said into the darkness. 

"Yes," came the calm reply, "are you having trouble sleeping again?" 

"Yeah." They were silent for several long moments. "What are you thinking about up there that's keeping you up?" Poe asked finally. 

"I was thinking about our escape," Bertie mused. 

Poe felt his stomach clench. They hadn't spoken about it since. One of the things he always appreciated about his co-pilot was his discretion. When he had stumbled into their small cell, red-lipped, face flushed and collar undone, Bertie had seemed puzzled, but he had pulled himself quickly up off the hard bench in response to Poe's insistent tugging on his arm. 

"Come on, Bertie, you have to get up, we're going," he had said, "We have only moments." 

He flushed again as he remembered how Bertie's eyes had taken in his…ruffled appearance. "What have you done?" was all he had said. Then, as now, Poe had felt his heart sink, and his eyes slide from his friend's questioning gaze. 

"Never mind," he had dodged, "Let's go." 

And Bertie had not said a word to him about it since, for which Poe was grateful. It meant he didn't have to feel the way he felt right now. 

"What were you thinking about it?" he forced himself to ask. 

"I wanted to know…was it the Group Captain?" 

"No," Poe responded hoarsely. 

"Good." 

"What…why?" 

He could almost hear Bertie's shrug. "Because I know you liked him." 

Poe just stared at the wall. "Yeah," he agreed. "Yeah, I did." 

*

**21 March, 1918. The Somme, France.**

Poe awoke to the sound of air raid sirens blaring and stumbled out of his bunk in the grey black of early morning. He could hear explosions and the sounds of machine gun fire from beyond the walls of the barracks, and he hurriedly dressed himself and grabbed his flying gear, knowing Bertie was already behind him as he ran out the door and onto the tarmac. 

"What's going on, sir?" he asked the nearest officer, a nervous looking Flight Lieutenant. 

"The Germans are making a very determined push across the river," the man said, flipping through the numerous sheets of yellowed paper that exploded from his clipboard. "Your orders are to launch as soon as possible and provide air support for our troops as we attempt a fighting retreat." 

"Yes sir!" Poe snapped a salute and jogged in the direction of his plane. His old Vickers had been replaced with one of the new Sopwith Camels, the newest model around. Even in the tumult, he could feel his heart glow with pride as he climbed aboard, gunning the engine and strapping in. She was a fine piece of equipment, as light and agile in the air as a hawk, and an absolute beauty to maneuver. 

"Looks like we'll have a nice day for it," is what Bertie might have said, had he still been flying with him. Poe still hadn't quite gotten used to the fact that the Camel was a one-seater, and his former co-pilot would be watching from the ground, ready to assist with repairs if needed. He still found himself talking as though his friend was still in his seat behind him. 

"It's as good as any for dying!" Poe said softly, a fierce grin on his face as they rolled to the end of the runway and took flight. 

*

Luke piloted his old Fokker to the point of his squad's V-formation. Leia had been right, he thought to himself as the wind rushed past his face. High Command had gotten their act together and ordered a rapid, sweeping advance, hoping to flank the British and destroy them at the Somme, forcing the French to sign an armistice. Privately, he thought it was unlikely to work. Nothing else in this damned war had turned out very well, so he didn't see why it should start now. 

"Approaching target, Group Commander." Luke's navigator, Artur Ditterson, tapped him on the shoulder. "The wind is good, we should be able to drop a few hundred feet. Get us in a good position for a fly-by." 

"Just as you say, Artur," Luke agreed, pushing the stick forward slightly and beginning a graceful dip towards the enemy trenches. Guns at the ready, they swept low, spraying the trench with machine gun fire from the old Spandau. He could hear the rest of his flight behind him, including Han, in their newer Albatrosses, following his lead. 

Sow chaos. Those had been his instructions. Heavy fire, concentrated on the front lines to cover the infantry advance. He didn't propose to disappoint. He pulled up on the stick, grinning in spite of himself. If he were to die in this war, he reflected, there were certainly worse ways to go.

*

As Poe cleared the light cloud cover with the rest of his flight, he could see the German aircraft spread out below them, just pulling out of a low fly-by. Albatrosses, the lot, he observed, the new DIII models, by the look of them. All of them except…

"Jesus fucking Christ," he swore loudly as they began their approach. 

His eye fixed on one lone Fokker, clearly the oldest model on the field, leading the V-formation of German fighters. "I only know one German who'd be stupid enough to still be flying a Fokker this late in the war," he said angrily. 

What was that idiot thinking? He raged to himself silently. The Fokker had been the scourge of the skies at the beginning of the war, but the newer, more agile models had long since rendered it obsolete. Against a Sopwith Pup, it might have stood a chance, but against a squadron of Camels, it would be about as easy to hit as a duck sitting on his father's pond back in Kent. 

Just as they began their descent, a second squad of German fighters dropped out from a cloud a few hundred feet above them and opened fire. Thoughts about how in hell Luke was going to manage to keep himself alive was pushed to the back of his mind as Poe focused all his attention on how he was going to keep himself alive. 

He pulled into a low dive, as machine gun fire ripped through the air around him, trying to give himself a bit of room to maneuver. He saw the first formation of German fighter pull around for a second pass, and he pulled up again, opening fire as they passed below him. One of the Albatrosses lit up in a blaze of orange and white, then spiraled towards the ground, trailing black smoke. 

"One down, Bertie," Poe murmured. 

*

"Scheize," Luke swore softly. When they had stood at the large oak table in Spa, planning the attack, he and Han had been so certain that an ambush would work. He supposed that they hadn't bargained on the exceptional maneuverability of the British fighters, nor the skill of their pilots. Foolish. 

Fortunately, their own pilots were not without skill. Luke saw Han's fighter drop nearly straight down, landing over a British craft and tagging its engine, sending it into a before pulling up and out of the dive. He still didn't know quite how Han had mastered that particular trick. On the books, it was suicidal, cutting the engine and dropping into a level stall like that, but Han seemed to manage it on a regular basis. He shook his head to clear the distracting thoughts as he came around for a second pass. 

*

"Shit, shit, shit, shit," Poe murmured, his heart hammering.  
"Oh, Bertie, this isn't going to be good." 

The engine had been hit at the top of his steep turn. He felt the world drop away as he hit a high wing stall on the right, and the left wing flipped the plane over on its back. 

He jammed the stick forward all the way and hit the left rudder with all his weight, praying desperately that he could pull out of the stall before he ended up as a splatter on the ground. He tried not to watch as the ground rose up to meet him, concentrating all of his attention on trying to bring the nose up before he lost power completely. 

"Come on, come on, you bastard son of a bitch," he growled. 

*  
"Fighters on our tail, sir!" Artur called. 

"I see them," Luke responded. He was about to pull up, trying to come around, when he then engine suddenly began to sputter. "Oh, God, no" Luke breathed in horror as he felt the power die as the engine petered out. He had known. He had told the General, they couldn't fly without proper oil, but he had been overruled. This, he supposed was what he got for not insisting. 

With its light wings and no power, in the middle of a turn, the right wing stalled out, and his faithful old Fokker just rolled over on its back, pitching into a spiral dive. 

To make things worse, the British fighters were still stood right on his tail. With a sickening jolt, Luke realized that, with the engine dead, this was a spin he wasn't going to be able to correct. 

*

The ground rushed towards him and Poe praised God that physics worked the way it did. The wheels of the Camel hit the earth with a sickening jolt, but he had managed to level out just in time and touch down relatively unharmed just to the west of the British trench they were supposed to be defending. It was still a trench, but Poe could see in a moment that it was no longer British. 

He scrambled out of the plane amid the sounds of screams and machine gun fire that had engulfed the field. Pulling his service revolver out of its holster, he fired on a German soldier who was attempting to spit a private on the end of his bayonet. The man dropped, and the boy he had been attacking gave Poe a relieved nod of thanks as he rushed by. 

He saw Bertie rushing towards him, his kit in hand, and we shook his head. "Engine's hit, there's no bloody point," he yelled. 

"Poe, you stupid bastard, you should be dead," was his only reply as they dropped to the earth behind the cover of a small hill. Poe was taking a moment to re-assess when he heard Bertie's horrified gasp and felt his friend's hand squeeze his shoulder tight. He looked up and, to his dismay, saw a black Fokker E.I. tumbling from the sky towards them like a rugby ball.

"Fucking Skywalker! I told him!" he said angrily, rising up into a half crouch, "I told him if he kept flying that thing it would kill him!" 

"That's the Group Captain?! Poe, wait, where the hell are you going?" Bertie yelled after him, but Poe hardly heard him. The Fokker was nearing the ground now, and Poe saw a short, squat figure leap from it and tumble out of harm's way. His navigator, he supposed. He waited, heart in his mouth, for a second figure to jump, but he knew it was already too late. The plane plowed into the earth, its light wooden frame splintering to matchsticks with the force of the impact. 

Ducking his head, Poe started to run as he saw the flames leap to life from the wreckage. "No," he breathed. The retreat had been sounded. British soldiers poured back from the abandoned trench, firing over their shoulders as they ran, being cut down by machine guns and bayonets. Poe hardly saw them. He ducked the thrust of a bayonet and barrelled straight into the soldier wielding it, knocking him back into the mud of the trench. Taking the gap at a full run, he leapt. He nearly cleared it, but his foot caught the edge and dumped him into the dirt next to a dead Captain. 

He pushed himself up, his heart pounding in his chest, and staggered forwards, covering the last ten feet that lay between him and the burning wreckage of the Fokker. The heat seared his face, and he coughed on the smoke as he pulled the remains of a wing off what was left of the cockpit. His breath caught in his throat as he saw Luke dangling from the wreckage, his right hand twisted at an impossible angle, pinned to the side of the cockpit by the heavy working of the old Spandau machine gun. 

Poe fell to his knees in the dirt, heedless of the heat, and grabbed Luke by the shoulders, shaking him hard. "Herr Skywalker!" he coughed, "Herr Skywalker!" Luke's face was deathly pale beneath a bright red slick of blood, and Poe felt the panic start to seize him. "Luke!" he yelled frantically. The eyelids fluttered. 

Poe dashed to the side of the cockpit and began to heave at the machine gun working that pinned down Luke's right hand. "God…fucking…damn you," he grunted. His hands were slippery with Luke's blood as he grappled with the scorching metal. It was a lost cause, he could see. The sleeve of Luke's flight jacket had wrapped hopelessly up in the workings, and the heavy metal lever that drove the firing mechanism had crushed the hand nearly beyond recognition. 

The flames gave a sudden whoosh as the engine block caught fire, and Poe realized that, if he did not act, and act quickly, that Luke Skywalker was a dead man. Grimly, he reached for the knife he carried tucked into his boot. He sliced through the leather of the flight jacket sleeve. Then, gritting his teeth, he set the blade to the last joint of the hand, and tore through the tendons and flesh of Luke's last three fingers. This time, when he heaved on the man's wrist, it came free. 

Grunting, he heaved Luke's head and arms over his shoulder and stood, balancing the man's weight before staggering out through the smoke. He had only taken a few steps when the flames roared, and the plane collapsed in on itself in a shower of sparks. 

"Medic!" he screamed, struggling to breathe through the smoke. He didn't even know what direction he was walking any more, and he didn't really care. All that mattered was that Herr Skywalker's life blood was on his hands, his face, soaking into his jacket. A terrible fear welled up in Poe's chest. Surely it was not possible for a man to lose that much blood and still survive? 

"Medic!" He could see figures rushing by him through the smoke. Faces, voices, hands on his. Luke's body being removed from his shoulders. The cold press of a pistol to the side of his head. He raised his hands slowly to his shoulders. German faces, he now saw. German voices, demanding to know what the hell he thought he was doing. 

"The Oberst…needs…a medic," Poe gasped out, breathing heavily. 

"Yes, we figured that one out all on our own," said the grim voice behind the pistol. Poe looked into a pair of fiery blue eyes in a face framed by chestnut brown hair. "The question was, who the hell are you, and what were you thinking?" 

Belatedly, Poe began to grasp the realities of his situation. He placed his hands behind his head, looking down meekly towards the bloody body of the Group Captain at his feet. "Squadron Leader Poe Dameron," he said hollowly, "I'm giving myself up as a prisoner." 

*

**7th April, 1918. The Somme, France.**

He was sitting on a hard bench. Again. It was a different cell, in a different building, at least he thought it was, but Poe was equally as bored, and twice as hungry this time around. He tucked his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself in a vain attempt to get a little warmer. He hadn’t thought it could get this cold in France in the spring, but, even with the sun shining bright outside his cell, the damp wind whipping through the cracks in the wall froze him straight through to his bones. 

He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Luke, and no one had spoken to him in his time in the cell. He didn’t even know if the Oberst was still alive. He hadn’t really expected to be kept informed, but the lack of information still grated on him. What he had expected was to be able to eat more than once every three days, but it seemed rations were a little thin on the ground on the German side these days. His stomach growled.

He looked up when he heard the jingle of keys, and saw a small crowd gathered outside his cell. He didn’t recognize any of them, but the one with the keys looked like a slimy bastard if he had ever seen one. He raised a telegram. 

“Your lucky day, Squadron Leader,” he rasped, a sickly smile pasted on his face, “Looks as though you are to be released." 

Poe didn’t like the sound of that. The two guards behind the creepy fellow grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. He stumbled, stiff with the cold, but he smirked at the creepy officer. "What, let out for good behaviour?" 

"Let out because we have one too many mouths to feed, Squadron Leader,” the man said crisply. Something about him made the skin on the back of Poe’s neck crawl. As the man’s words rolled over and over in his mind, he felt a sudden hollow place in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t joking. Of course he wasn’t. The men in the trenches were starving, and there weren’t enough rations to feed prisoners, even poorly. So they were going to do the sensible thing and simply shoot him. It was almost funny, in a surreal kind of way. 

“That a new model?” he asked, jutting his head towards the officer’s pistol, trying to keep his mind occupied as they marched down the long hallway. 

“Yes, it is,” the man said silkily. “A Luger. The first semi-automatic pistol in the world.” He sounded ridiculously proud of it. Poe resisted the urge to grimace.

“An iconic moment,” he agreed drily, deciding not to mention that the Mauser C93 had been built over thirty years ago. 

They stepped out into the muddy yard, and Poe blinked at the April sunshine, blinding after so many days indoors. It was a beautiful day, the kind that only comes in early spring, when the snow begins to melt but the air is still crisp. A light breeze ruffled his hair, and birds sang in the trees. A good day to die. 

At least he was here of his own choosing, he thought as the guards pulled his hands behind his back and bound them a length of rope. He hadn’t been forced here by anyone. One guard brought out a strip of white cloth for a blindfold, but he shook his head. If they were going to shoot him, he was going to look straight down the barrel at them while they did it. 

When they pushed him up against the wall and he turned to face the guns, he really did have to laugh. There was no firing squad, just the creepy officer, levelling a pistol straight at his head. “I don’t even merit a firing squad?” he asked as his laughter subsided.

The officer-he looked like a major, now that Poe got a good look at his uniform- merely gave him a grim smile. “Waste of good ammunition.”

He raised the gun in his hand and Poe took a deep breath, staring straight down the barrel at the Major’s pale eyes. His heart pounded in his chest, but he held his gaze steady, refusing to let his nerves show. 

He heard the distinctive click of the cocking mechanism. The moment dragged on, and he held his breath, waiting for the end. 

“Stay that pistol, Major Snoke!” an authoritative voice rang from the other side of the yard. Poe jumped. He knew that voice, but hadn’t thought to ever hear it so…harsh. The tall blue-eyed officer that he had surrendered to nearly a month earlier was walking towards them down the yard, his face a storm of anger. Then Poe’s heart leapt to his throat. At his side, a look of cold rage on his pale face, strode Luke. His right arm was tied tight to his chest with a sling, and he gripped a cane in his left hand, but his eyes flashed as he approached. Relief flooded through Poe’s body. Luke was alive. Everything was going to be okay. 

“I beg your pardon, Herr Oberst?” the Major replied obsequiously, as though he had no greater aspiration than to serve the two gentlemen approaching them. Poe could have kicked him in the face, the oily bastard.

“The Rittmeister gave very specific instructions regarding the treatment of this prisoner, did he not, Major?” Luke’s voice was soft and dangerous as he approached. Poe wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something in the anger radiating off of this small man that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

“He did, Oberst, however, Colonel Schmidt gave very strict instructions in regards to taking prisoners at all.” The Major held up a telegram. “The order arrived this morning, sir,” he added with a smug smile.

The smile vanished as Luke snatched the telegram from his hand. “Well, I’m countermanding it.” The telegram dropped into the mud.

The Major was silent, but Poe could tell that he was stung by the rebuke. He found he didn’t have all that much sympathy for the man. Luke’s eyes slid over him and Poe shivered, but the Oberst addressed the guard to his left. “Return the prisoner to his cell, and see that he is fed,” he said icily.

He turned to speak with the Rittmeister, and didn’t look back as Poe was dragged by.  
*  
The anger still burned cold in his chest two hours later when Luke strode down to the end of the improvised cell block, past rows of empty cells. It was strange, he thought distantly, that the poets described anger as fiery, or hot. For him, it always felt like a hand of ice had closed about his heart. He couldn’t quite have said exactly what it was that he was angry about, per se, but the fact that this courageous idiot was once again a prisoner, this time because of him, was certainly not least in his thoughts.

Dameron was sitting on the bench in his cell, knees wrapped up tight to his chest. When he saw Luke, he came immediately to his feet, a bright smile illuminating his face like the sun on a cloudy day. Luke couldn’t help but notice that he was considerably taller than the last time they had met.

“Herr Skywalker, it’s good to see you,” he said as he approached the bars. His smile faded when he saw Luke’s face, and he took a step back. “Still in the land of the living, I mean.” He looked down at his boots.

“In no small part thanks to you, I understand,” Luke said coolly. Dameron looked up, the smile creeping hesitantly back to his face.

“Why?” Luke’s harsh demand wiped the nascent grin away. It was replaced with a look of hurt confusion.

“I’m sorry, sir?" 

"The question is clear enough Squadron Leader,” Luke continued coldly, “Why did you drag me from the wreck of that plane, and why then, in God’s name, did you walk back into occupied territory to find a medic?”

“I-I was…you were…" 

"I was an enemy pilot downed on enemy territory, Squadron Leader. Gott in Himmel, man, did you completely lose your mind?" 

Dameron searched his face as though looking for some kind of clue to what he should say, how he should respond to this onslaught. A small voice at the back of Luke’s mind suggested that he was perhaps a bit out of court on this. But, as is the way with such small voices, the twinge of guilt only caused his face to harden further.

"Tell me why.”

Dameron looked at the floor. “You weren’t just any enemy pilot, sir,” he returned after a moment. “You were an enemy pilot that I counted as a…as a friend. Honour would not have let me just stand aside and watch you burn to death.”

Luke scoffed. “I have seen what you think of friendship,” he said scathingly, thinking of a frozen night in December. “Tell me, was Leutnant Von Kransk a friend?" 

A flush suffused Dameron’s face, and he looked down again. "No. That was a…tactical decision.”

Luke gave a cynical bark of laughter. “Oh yes? Do enlighten me.”

Dameron looked back at him through the cell bars, jaw muscles clenched. “I did what I had to do to secure an escape for myself and my navigator,” he said tightly.

“Strange, that wasn’t the way the Leutnant put it at all before he was shot.” Dameron flinched. Luke new he was being cruel, but there was something inside of him that ached to know the truth. Dameron’s chin lifted defiantly, and he looked Luke straight in the eyes.

“I sucked his cock, Herr Oberst,” he said harshly, wielding Luke’s rank like an axe, “is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I wonder, was it worth the cost?” Luke asked ironically, “A man’s life seems a steep price to pay for so fleeting an escape as yours was.”

It was Dameron’s turn to laugh harshly, “What, Herr Oberst, did you think I forced him?” His eyes glittered darkly, “That man made a choice. A poor choice, and one that happened to be of benefit to me, but still a choice. And it might be that I took advantage of a lonely boy far from home, Herr Skywalker, but so did you." 

Luke was about to speak, to defend himself, but Dameron continued, his voice snapping like a whip across Luke’s consicence "You know just as well as I do that you didn’t have to shoot that kid. It was a choice. I can live with the consequences of my actions. Can you?”

Luke stared a moment in shocked silence. He sighed, passing his hand over his brow, smoothing out the tension that had gathered there. “I deserved that, didn’t I?” he asked softly. 

“Yeah, you kind of did,” Dameron agreed grudgingly.

“So, tell me, was I a tactical decision as well?” The words were out of Luke’s mouth before he had really taken the time to think about them, but now they hung in the air between the two men like a lead ball. Luke’s heart hammered in his chest. He couldn’t quite believe he had spoken the words aloud but, now that they were said, he realized that it really was what he had wanted to know all along. 

“Of course not.” Dameron’s voice was hoarse, and it caused a wave of guilt to rise up in Luke. 

They were silent for a long moment, neither one of them ready to look the other in the eye. “I didn’t want to do it,” Dameron whispered finally.

Something clenched in Luke’s chest at the hopeless sound in the boy’s voice, and he looked up, seeing the shame and remorse writ plain on his young face. He looked up into Luke’s eyes, searching for…Luke wasn’t sure he wanted to know what. “Herr Skywalker, I’m sorry. I don’t know what you thought about…my intensions that night, but please know that I have nothing but the highest of…respect for you." 

Luke sighed, reaching into his pocket. "No, Herr Dameron, it is I who should apologize,” he said. He gave the boy a small smile. “I hope you can find it in you to forgive me for my conduct. It was inappropriate, and I should have known better than to doubt your…friendship.” Clumsily, cursing the lack of his right hand, he fed the key into the lock on the cell door.

“Come,” he said, swinging the door open. Dameron hesitated, unsure. “Come on,” he urged gesturing to the door.

“Sir?”

“Much as I wish that Major Snoke were out of court with his actions earlier today,” Luke said with a wry grin, “He is industrious to a fault, and I cannot disregard him forever. It is not safe for you here, Herr Dameron, and so you must go.”

“You’re just…you mean you’re going to just let me walk out of here?” Dameron asked in disbelief.

Luke sighed. “I am weak and sick, still,” he said, settling himself comfortably on the guard’s chair and handing Dameron the keys. “I had come to thank you for saving my life, as any gentleman would, of course. Being young, strong, and made desperate by your narrow brush with death this morning, you overpowered me and stole the keys, securing your escape." 

“I did?” 

“You did.” 

"Are they going to believe you?” Dameron asked incredulously, pocketing the keys.

“They had better,” Luke said grimly.

“I…thank you, sir.”

“You are most welcome, Herr Dameron.” The boy turned to go, but Luke’s next question paused him mid-step. “Out of curiosity, Herr Dameron, why did you leave the Yeats behind?" 

He turned back, a ridiculous grin on his face. "I didn’t want to cause you any trouble, sir.” He took a few steps back to stand at Luke’s side, “Besides,” he added, looking down at him with something…strange in those dark brown eyes, “I think if you examine it carefully, you’ll find I took the most important part.” Leaning down suddenly, he placed a soft kiss on Luke’s cheek. “I hope you’ll forgive me for the vandalism, sir.” Then, in one smooth movement, he drew Luke’s own Luger from its holster on his belt. “And for this. But this has to look real." 

There was a sharp burst of pain on the back of Luke’s head, and then the world was swallowed in darkness.

*

He awoke in a field hospital bed hours later, Han sitting anxiously beside his bed. Blinking in the light, Luke tried to reconstruct the morning in his mind. 

“Are you feeling alright?” Han asked. 

“Yes, I think I’m alright. What happened?” Luke sat up slowly, feeling the ache on the back of his skull. 

“That young pilot, the one who rescued you? Looks like he can’t make up his mind about whether to keep you alive or not. When you hadn’t come up to the mess for dinner, I sent one of the men for you. Poor bugger found you lying outside an empty cell. Seems the kid brained you with your own pistol and made a break for it.” 

“He’s gone?” 

“Unfortunately.” Han didn’t seem at all pleased that the young pilot had evaded capture. 

“I see.” He tried not to let the relief that washed over him show on his face. He caught sight of a familiar blue binding out of the corner of his eye. Turning, Luke reached for the book of Yeats that was sitting on the nightstand. Thumbing it open, a thing he hadn’t done since that Christmas night, he saw that ‘Rose of Battle’ was no longer there. In its place was a ragged tear, and a small sheet of cigarette paper with the words "Till we meet again, Herr Skywalker.” scribbled hastily in pencil.

Luke started to laugh. “No, no, I’m fine, Han, sit down,” he said, stilling his friend with a wave of his hand.

“You were hit on the head, and now you’re laughing like a madman,” Han said, a frown on his handsome face, as he sat slowly back into his chair by the bed, “I think that is cause for some concern.”

“I’m just laughing at the irony of the world. I promise, I’m as sane as you." 

”Mein Gott, I hope not.“ 

 

**15th April, 1918. The Somme, France.**

Poe approached the British trench cautiously, the stolen Luger held tight in his hand. He hadn't realized, when he had stumbled out of the prison cell just over a week ago, that the Germans had managed to advance so far. And the offensive was far from over. After a week of trekking alone through enemy territory, he was hungry and twitchy, ready to duck for cover at the slightest sound, and more in need of a good night's sleep than he had ever been in his life. He crouched down into a small dip in what he supposed was now no-man's land, looking toward the lip of the trench. With this kind of dodge and run battle underway, he expected the sentries to be just about as twitchy as he was, and he had no desire to get shot full of holes this close to food and a bed. 

He watched the line, listening for the tell-tale thunk of the sentry's boots on the boards of the trench. As footsteps approached, he very slowly raised his hands above his head, holding his undershirt up as a white flag. 

"Truce flag spotted, Captain!" He heard the sentry's call, followed by the unmistakeable sound of the bolt being cycled on an Enfield Mark 3. 

"Show yourself, and state your name and rank!" called a gruff voice. The command was then repeated in choppy German. Poe rose slowly from his crouch, hands still held above his head. 

"Squadron Leader Poe Dameron," he called, his voice scratchy and sore after spending so many days unused. 

"And I'm the King of England," the voice called back disdainfully, "The Squadron Leader bought it sausage-side last month. I saw it myself." 

"Martin Scoville, you son of a bitch, I haven't eaten a square meal in ten days," Poe called back, "I'll be damned if I'm going to stand here freezing my arse off because you can't see straight." 

There was a hurried exchange and a flurry of curses. "You just stay right where you are, soldier," Scoville returned, "And I'll not take any lip from you until you can be reliably identified." 

"You should be so lucky," Poe grumbled to himself, but he stood where he was. 

After what seemed like years, Poe heard another set of feet arrive, and a hushed conversation followed by a sharp exclamation. 

"Right!" Scoville called to him, "Approach slowly, and keep those hands where I can see them." 

Poe heard another muffled curse, "…Scoville, you ass, I told you it was him!" At the sound of Bertie's voice, Poe felt a flood of relief flow through his tired body, and he stumbled the last few steps to the lip of the trench, nearly pitching straight forward onto his face in the dirt. Bertie's strong hands caught him and helped him down the ladder into the trench. 

"You stupid bastard," he heard Bertie's voice, muffled against his shoulder as the man enfolded him in a bear hug. 

"You're telling me," Poe muttered. 

"Come on," Bertie said, throwing Poe's arm over his broad shoulders, "They've moved us back behind the lines, something about idiot pilots running across enemy lines, I think." 

*

Back in barracks, with a hot bowl of soup and a fresh uniform, Poe was starting to feel a bit more human, though he was still in desperate need of a sleep. Bertie had been his usual unobtrusive self, but Poe could tell that he was itching to hear ask what the hell had happened. 

"The Group Captain made it," he said over the top of his bowl. 

"I'm glad." 

Poe felt a grin split his face open, and a warm feeling seemed to grow somewhere inside him. "I got to kiss him again." 

Bertie put his head in his hands. "You've been gone for a month and a half, and that's all you have to tell me?" 

Poe shrugged, "It was by far the highlight." He frowned down at his soup, then looked up at Bertie. 

"Do you think he likes me?" He was somewhat embarrassed to hear the hopefulness in his own voice. 

Bertie was quiet for a long time, and Poe felt his heart leap to his throat. 

"I'm not sure that liking really comes into it," he said thoughtfully, "I'm not sure he can allow himself to like you, at least not the way you want him to." 

"What? Why not?" The spoon lay forgotten beside the soup bowl. 

Bertie gave him a look. "Poe," he said gently, "You've got to wake up. He's a German officer. You're a British officer. We're at war…." he floundered, searching for a way to express the painfully obvious. "Look, if it came down to a battle, and you had him in your sights, would you pull the trigger?" 

"Of course not!" Poe found himself revolted by the very idea. 

"There's the problem. When you're in a battle, there isn't space for that kind of…indecision. I mean, just think about it. You've got a whole squadron of good men that you need to protect, and he's got a whole flight group. What if you were the one dropping them out of the sky? What if he had to choose between your life and theirs? For a man like the Group Captain, that's an intolerable decision to have to make, because he knows he'd have to choose them. So he has to keep himself from wanting to choose you." 

Poe suddenly felt very small and very alone. He knew Bertie was right of course, but damn it, it didn't change the way he felt. His friend must have seen something in his face, because he got out of his chair and came to sit beside Poe on the bed, putting a warm hand on his shoulder. 

"I think he does like you, Poe. I mean, hell, he came to see you every day when we were stuck in that prison cell, I can't think he did that out of any sense of responsibility for you. I mean, he even let you kiss him, so I'm sure he doesn't dislike you. But the kind of affection you want…I don't think he's going to be able to give it to you, at least not now." 

Poe frowned down at the soup. "Then I hope this goddamned war is over sooner rather than later," he said viciously. 

"You and everybody else, Poe," Bertie said with a sigh, leaning back on the bed, "You and everybody else."


	2. 7th May, 1918. The Somme, France.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cute Skywalker twins moments.

7th May, 1918. The Somme, France. 

Luke was in his element. At least, it had been his element once, and he was determined not to let his lack of dexterity ruin it for him now. The spring air blew gently through the open door of the flight hangar, bringing with it the mingled scents of lilacs and gasoline. An odd combination, but one that never failed to lift his spirits. It was unseasonably warm for the beginning of May, and he was in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up past his elbows to protect them from the grease. A record of lieder played softly from the gramophone in the corner, the soaring tenderness of Schubert's melodic lines soothing his soul as he took a wrench to the new Albatross D. III that he had been commissioned after the demise of his beloved Fokker. 

Actually flying it was still a challenge, and the slowness of his recovery irritated the hell out of him, but he could still find solace in the delightful complexities of the new plane's inner workings. The other mechanics on the base had long since abandoned all hope of tuning up his plane. Many of them had attempted, but they invariably resigned in frustration after coping with his anxious observations and persistent questioning of their methods. These days, they mostly left him to his own devices which was, if he was honest, just the way he liked it. 

He was so absorbed in his task, lulled to a state of total concentration by the repetitive task and the lieder, that he didn't hear his sister until she spoke from just behind his left elbow. 

"It's good to see you working." 

He jumped, the wrench dropping from his hand to fall with a metallic thud on the dirt floor of the hangar. Spinning on his heel, he saw Leia grinning at him, hand raised to her mouth to conceal her laughter. 

"You startled me," he said lamely, using a rag to wipe ineffectually at the grease on his hands. "I thought you were still in Spa with Ben." 

"I was, and I will be. I'm only here for dinner." Leia answered, her laughter subsiding. "I wanted to see you." She hesitated, suddenly seeming at a rare loss for words. "Han told me about the…accident." He saw her eyes stray to his right wrist, still tightly bandaged, then snap abruptly back to his face. "He said you were alright, but…well I just needed to see for myself." 

Luke smiled, spreading his arms away from his sides to indicate the entirety of his wiry frame. "And do I pass inspection?" 

She came to him then, folding him into an embrace, heedless of the grease and dirt on his shirt. Gently, he wrapped his arms around her. "You could have died, Luke," she whispered. He was shocked to hear that she was crying, a thing he hadn't seen her do since she broke her leg in two places in a riding accident. Despite himself, Luke was touched. His sister was not a soft woman, in many ways, and they had had their fair share of disagreements growing up, but he had forgotten how close they still were.

"I didn't," he said softly, stroking her back with his good hand in an awkward attempt at comfort. 

"I know." she pulled away, wiping at her eyes, "but it was closer than I like." She put a soft hand on his cheek. "You scared me. I thought I'd lost you." 

He didn't tell her that she almost had. Even without Herr Dameron's impromptu field amputation, it had been a terrible wound. He was still thankful that he had not been awake to the world when the doctor had taken the saw to his wrist to stop the gangrene from setting in and poisoning his blood. Not to mention the head wound, which had not been insignificant. 

Instead, he took her hands in his, laying them over his right wrist. "I am sorry that I frightened you," he said. "I would promise you that I won't do it again, but being a soldier would put that to the lie." 

"I know." She looked down at where his hand had been, running her fingers lightly over the bandaging. Her blue eyes slid slowly up to meet his. "But can you promise that you will be careful?" 

He raised her hands to his lips, placing a kiss on her soft skin. "I can promise you that." 

They were silent for a long moment, standing in the May sunshine, then Leia looked down at her hands and noticed they were covered in grease from holding his. She began to laugh and suddenly they were children again, and she had wandered into their uncle's barn to find him and Han up to their elbows in parts, their faces smeared with dirt, grease, and wide little boy smiles. 

"I've never understood your fascination with these kinds of things,” she said, shaking her head as she wiped what he assumed was a smudge from his cheek with her thumb. 

"Well, I've always been slightly mad," he replied, smiling in spite of himself. 

"I'm sure it has to do with mother dropping you on your head when you were a baby," Leia said matter-of-factly, wiping her own hands on the rag she had taken from his hands. "Shall we go to dinner?" 

"Yes, of course. Speaking of children, how is Ben doing?" Luke asked, rolling his sleeves down. When they were buttoned at his wrists, he could put his arm in his pocket, a charade of normalcy which he found kept the men more at their ease in his presence. Leia grimaced. 

"He's fourteen and convinced that he should be fighting glorious battles for the Kaiser like his father and uncle," she said drily, "does that answer your question?" 

"Well, I suppose," Luke allowed. He offered her his arm, and she looped her hand around his elbow, allowing him to lead her towards the officer's mess. She sighed. 

"He's a handful, if I'm being honest. I just…I don't know what's happened to him." 

Luke gave a small shrug. "He is going through a difficult time in his life, as we have all done. It is unfortunate for him that he is doing it at a difficult time, and away from his home and his father." 

Leia stiffened at his side. "Are you suggesting I should have stayed in Berlin?" she asked sharply. 

"Of course not, Leia. All I am suggesting is that this is a hard time to be a young man. He is lucky to have a mother and father who love him." 

"I suppose." They walked on in silence for several yards. 

"So, did you let him go?" she asked suddenly as they rounded the end of the hangar. 

"I beg your pardon?" Luke asked, startled. 

"The boy, the one that rescued you. Han said that he escaped?" He could feel her eyes searching his face. 

"They were going to shoot him, did Han tell you that?" he asked her, careful to keep her conversational tone. 

"Yes, he did. Lucky for him that he escaped when he did, I suppose." She looked over at him, a small smile playing about her lips. When he was silent, a frown grew between her eyes. "It would have been a shame if he had been shot. We owe him a great deal." 

Luke looked at her sharply, unsure if she was actually being serious. She placed a soft kiss on his cheek as they reached the door to the mess, pulling back with that same strange smile. "However it happened, I'm glad that he made it out alive." She let go his arm and entered the mess. 

"As am I," Luke said softly, following her in.


	3. November 13th, 1918. Just outside Berlin, Germany.

November 13th, 1918. Just outside Berlin, Germany. 

Dinner was a sombre affair at the Skywalker Estate. Leia and Luke had inherited the vast, draughty hall from their father, a man they had barely known, when they had come of age. It was a glorious piece of Gothic architecture, a style that was admirably suited to the atmosphere of the evening. 

They ate in silence, with no accompaniment save the clink of silverware on fine plate and the howling of the frigid wind around the gables and peaks of the old house. The steady tick…tick…tick of the massive grandfather clock in the corner marked the slow passage of time. 

Luke was still adjusting to eating with his left hand, and meals often required a fair deal of concentration on his part, so he was grateful for the lack of scintillating dinnertime conversation. Glancing up, however, he could see that his nephew was far less thankful. Ben had turned fifteen, the age at which his mother agreed he could enlist, two weeks before the Armistice was signed in Compiègne. In Luke's educated opinion, he hadn't really stopped sulking since. 

"Father," Ben said looking up the table towards Han, "were we really defeated?" 

Luke winced. This was a bit of a sore subject, and he suspected that Ben had asked the question specifically to needle his father. 

"Of course we were," Han responded gruffly into his soup, only half rising to the bait. 

Ben frowned, "But Fraulein Marten said that we weren't defeated at all, that it was a plot by the communists and revolutionaries to betray the nation and overthrow the Kaiser." 

"Fraulein Marten is, as usual, mistaken." Han's voice had dropped to a dangerous level, and he frowned over his soup spoon at his son. 

Ben gave his father a condescending look. "It isn't as though you would even know father," he said, disdain dripping from his voice, "You weren't even at the front when the armistice was signed, let alone close to the train car." 

"Benjamin Solo," Leia snapped, "how dare you speak to your father with that tone?" Cowed for the moment, Ben returned his eyes to his own bowl, his face mutinous. 

"It has been a difficult month, regardless," Luke said softly towards his soup bowl, making a vain attempt to restore the peace. Han snorted in derision. 

"It's about to get a hell of a lot more difficult." 

Luke took a breath to speak, then thought better of it and concentrated on getting the spoon to his mouth without spilling the liquid on his dinner jacket. 

In spite of the bitter taste of defeat that had permeated the entire nation, Luke found himself relieved. Though he had always loved machines, and recently developed a love of flying, he held nothing but abject hatred for the noise, the hell, and the horror of war. It wasn't a life that he was well cut out for, and he was quite glad to get back to managing the enamelware business that their father had left them along with the house. Guest lecturing in literature at the university, poetry, long train journeys…yes. It was long since time that he returned to the things he loved. 

Han, who had been out of sorts since the armistice, elected not to stay and smoke after dinner. Leia had seized her son firmly by the arm the moment dinner was cleared away, and marched him upstairs. Luke could hear the sound of her blistering the boy's ears from where he sat by the hearth, smoking his pipe. He sighed. Fifteen, he suspected, was entirely too old for that type of discipline to be of much good. He stared into the flickering flames in the hearth, thinking on defeat and the utter absurdity that called for the waste of so many lives. He wondered, briefly, where Poe Dameron was on this frigid November night. Had he lived to see the end of the war? Or had he ended, as so many others, dead in the French mud, nothing more than food for rats? He fervently hoped that it was the former, but resigned himself to the fact that he would never know.


	4. 15th November, 1918. La Boiselle, France.

Despite the prolonged celebrations taking place riotously around him, victory somehow felt hollow to Poe. Jacket unbuttoned, tie askew, he sat sprawled on the steps of an abandoned houses in the village smoking a cigarette. He’d been kissed more times than he could count, and there was a never-ending stream of ebullient young men parading past him, enticing him to join them in all manner of tantalizing debauchery. He declined, preferring to sit on the step and watch the sun go down over France. He crumpled the letter in his hand and took a swig from the bottle of Chablis that he’d swiped from a passing private, replaying the events of the day in his mind.

Post had been a dodgy thing in the last week, what with the armistice and the ensuing chaos, but this morning a bedraggled young man carrying a postal bag had flagged him down and pressed a letter on him, swearing that if every man in France were as difficult to find as he had been, he’d never have delivered a letter in the whole war. Poe had been rather cavalier, ripping open the seal on the letter and perusing it absently as he strolled down the street. The opening line had hit him like a punch in the gut.

Mr. Dameron,

It is with deepest sympathy that I write to inform you that your father, Kes Dameron, has gone to his rest. Given the lamentable state of your father’s financial affairs, I regret to inform you that the estate has been seized by the firm of Pratt and Sons in payment of his debts.

Poe had sat down heavily on the step where he now perched, feeling somewhat light-headed. He had known that money was tight, but there was a war on, of course it had been tight, and it wasn’t as though he or his father had what anyone would call expensive taste.

By court order, your father’s home was foreclosed in order to cover the cost of the funeral, which had been assumed by the local parish. As your father had no valid will and testament, he was modestly interred in the community cemetery.

Again, please except my deepest regret and sympathy for your loss.

Yours Very Sincerely,

Arthur Carlisle,  
Pastor,  
St. Saviour’s Church

So that was it, Poe thought numbly, re-reading the letter in his mind. As quick as that, no family, no home to go back to. Despite having reached the age of majority, he still felt like an orphan. Worse than anything, he hadn’t expected it. He had never had any inkling that his father was ill, let alone that he had been in a financially unstable state. If he had known, he would have been back home on leave in a heartbeat, he wouldn’t have cared what anyone said. Which, he reflected morosely, was quite probably why his father hadn’t told him. He still couldn’t hardly believe it. His father’s last letter had been written with the same roughly compassionate tone he had used in their correspondence throughout the war. Talk of the weather, their ridiculous neighbor with the insomniac cat that yowled beneath his window every night. Poe smiled sadly as he remembered how proudly his father had proclaimed that he had managed to boil an egg without burning down the house. Mother would have been proud, though the toast had left a bit to be desired.

It was strange, he considered, that despite the news contained in this single scrap of paper, the thing that had settled like a horrible weight in his chest was not the fact of his father’s death. It was the knowledge that he had never had a chance to say goodbye. And now he never would. He felt a prickling in his eyes that was threatening to turn to tears and he brushed angrily at his eyes.

“Poe?” he jumped at the sound of Bertie’s soft voice from above him. 

“Hey!” Poe raised the wine bottle in a mock toast, making a valiant attempt to resurrect the levity he had felt yesterday.

“Quit that,” Bertie said matter-of-factly, taking the bottle from his hand and sitting down heavily beside him. “What’s wrong?”

Poe was about to brush it off, make some kind of joke about having had too much to drink, but he couldn’t. Wordlessly, he passed Bertie the letter.

His friend read it in silence, then put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.” The compassion in his tone loosened something that Poe hadn’t realized was tight, and suddenly the tears were flowing freely. He felt Bertie put an arm around his shoulder, and he lowered his head to his hands, letting his grief and regret come pouring out.

They sat quietly for a long time as the sun dipped below the horizon and the first stars began to glitter in the sky as Poe’s sobs finally subsided into a slight sniffle.

“So where will you go?” Bertie asked after a long silence. Poe shrugged.

“Colonel Grove approached me this morning and requested that I attend the peace conference. I told him I had nothing better to do.”

Bertie nodded and looked thoughtfully out into the night. The silence stretched on, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter from the impromptu bar the boys had opened up down the street. “So you’ll be staying in Paris then.” It was a statement, not a question, but Poe nodded anyway.

“I hear rent’s cheaper with a flatmate.” A small smile crept onto Poe’s face for the first time that day.

“Are you offering to sleep with me, Mr. Brown?” It was Bertie’s turn to shrug.

“Well, it’s not like I really have anything at home to go back to. And I’ve heard that there are a lot of lovely museums in Paris. Besides,” he added, looking over at him, “Someone has to make sure you don’t get into too much trouble.”

Poe smiled gratefully at him. “Thank you.”

“I’m not offering for you,” Bertie huffed, “I just want to drink delicious wine and look at beautiful art.”

“Damn,” Poe grinned, “and here I thought it was my dashing good looks and winning personality.”

Bertie snorted, “In your dreams, Dameron.”

“Wait a minute, are you suggesting that I don’t count as beautiful art?” Poe exclaimed in mock outrage.

“Yes, I absolutely am.”

“Well. I guess it’s all for the best that I’m staying in Paris, so you can get your fix.” Poe looked up, meeting his friend’s eyes. “I’m serious, Bertie, thank you.”  
Bertie smiled and took the bottle of Chablis from Poe’s hand, taking a long pull.

“You’re very seriously welcome then.”


	5. April 29th, 1919. Paris, France

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-war shenanigans begin!

If the first time they had met had been by chance, the second by pure blind luck, their third meeting, Luke would insist till his dying day, had been Schicksal; Fate. There had been a million reasons to stay in Berlin. Postwar Germany was an enormous wreck, and the enamelware business was not something that could run itself. Herr Riepjau, the family’s butler, had taken ill the week before and Leia had been run off her feet trying to keep the staff and the household in order. Luke himself was not feeling all that well, and had next to no desire to be present for what he was certain would be the utter humiliation of his homeland. The train had been delayed. He had left his second-best suit hanging in the wardrobe back in Berlin.

And yet, here he was. He still could not say why he had agreed to the Count’s request to join him as part of the German delegation that would hear the presentation of the Paris Peace Conference’s long work on the proposed peace treaty. It still offended him to his very core that no German input had been solicited up to this point, but he kept his temper carefully in check as he stood in the luxurious ballroom, listening to mediocre band music and sipping a thoroughly indifferent champagne. Not only was this entire endeavour an exercise in embarrassment, but they couldn’t even be bothered to supply decent refreshments. 

He sighed and let his eyes wander over the ballroom. There was some dancing, if it could be called that, and several clumps of important dignitaries grouped around the small cocktail tables scattered around the room. A veritable army of waiters and other hired help flitted from table to table with trays of champagne and highly suspect hors d'oeuvres. Luke noted the Japanese delegation, engaged in an animated conversation with President Wilson. It looked like Wilson was getting the worst of the conversation, but Luke would have paid him half his inheritance to trade places.

“I hear that Berlin is quite lovely this time of year.” David Lloyd George, Prime Minister of Great Britain and her Empire, did have a lovely voice and, to his credit, was doing quite an admirable job of playing peacemaker. Luke heard Count von Brockdorff-Rantzau give a non-committal reply, trying, as always to be as moderate as possible.

“Not nearly so lovely as the langue d'oc.” Luke felt himself gripping his champagne flute rather tighter than was advisable. He did not consider himself a violent man, but Georges Clemenceau was perhaps the most odious human being he had ever had the misfortune to pass time with. Luke supposed it was a result of the man’s breeding that he did not lower himself to actually come to blows with any of the German delegation, but his snide remarks had made his hatred and disdain for all things German quite plain. He gritted his teeth. It was going to be a long night. 

A flicker of movement and an outburst of delighted laughter mercifully drew his attention to the edge of the dancefloor. A group of men stood in a loose circle, and had obviously heard a rather spectacular joke. A tall man in an army officer’s uniform clapped a comradely hand onto the shoulder of a short, wiry man with his back to Luke. As he studied the little tableau, the short figure turned over his shoulder, presumably to flag down another glass of champagne, and Luke locked eyes with Poe Dameron.

For the smallest fraction of a second, Dameron looked surprised. Then a smile spread across his face and he winked broadly. Luke coughed lightly to clear the sudden tightness in his throat. Then, to his mingled delight and dismay, he saw Dameron shake hands and gently disengage himself from the circle and turn to walk across the ballroom towards him. 

*

It was worth a whole handful of medals to see the look on Luke’s face as Poe walked across the ballroom toward him. The poor man looked trapped in a conversation with just about the worst possible combination of partners Poe could imagine. If it hadn’t been so depressing, he would have laughed at the little scene, the pompous Clemenceau waxing eloquent about the glory of France while the German delegation looked ready to murder him, and Lloyd-George tried desperately to referee.

He flashed Luke a grin as he approached and was delighted to see a hint of colour rise to the man’s cheeks. The war was over, after all, and he figured that a blush was a good sign, no matter what Bertie thought. Poe turned his attention to the Very Important People in the circle and stepped up his charm the slightest bit.

“Prime Minister,” he extended his hand to Lloyd-George, cutting across whatever Clemenceau had been saying, “So good to see you again, sir.” He saw the Prime Minister take in his dress uniform, from the impeccably pressed lapels to his polished boots, and give him the blank smile important people reserve for those they are quite sure they should remember but have entirely forgotten. 

“Yes, yes, always a pleasure,” he said, and Poe resisted the urge to smirk. “Have you met our colleagues from Germany?” Lloyd George gestured towards the thin, dour-faced man with the severe mustache standing beside Luke. 

“No, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he held out a hand. 

“Count Ulrich von Brockdorff-Rantzau, at your service,” the man said in a clipped, short voice, taking his hand.

“Squadron Commander Poe Dameron, sir, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Poe returned in German. The man’s dour face brightened a bit at the sound of his native tongue, and he turned to his left, gesturing to Luke.

“This is-”

“We’ve met,” Luke said tightly.

“Always a pleasure to see you, Herr Skywalker.” With a deft movement, Poe plucked the champagne glass from Luke’s left hand and held his own out to shake. Giving him what he obviously hoped was a Very Serious Glare, Luke took it.

Releasing Luke’s hand and resisting the urge to grin at the look on the man’s face, Poe took a sip of the champagne. He coughed slightly and made a face of his own as the bubbly liquid hit the back of his throat, filling his mouth with a sickly sweet, bitter taste. “Good lord, what is this?” he asked in disbelief, turning his watering eyes to Clemenceau.

“I believe it is champagne,” the man said stiffly, clearly offended.

“Terrible stuff,” Poe declared, placing the glass on the tray of a passing waiter.

“Lucky you saved me,” Luke said drily. Poe could see the barest hint of a smile on the man’s lips. He’d count that as a minor victory.

“Do forgive my interruption, gentlemen,” he said, “I’ll leave you to enjoy the evening.”

He turned away, and was glad that none of the men could see his face as he heard Lloyd-George comment to the Count, “Pleasant chap, No earthly idea who he was. Hair rather defied belief.”

* 

It was another hour and a half before Luke could manage to extricate himself from the sickeningly sycophantic skeins of the cocktail conversation. Even then, it had not been a graceful exit. A whispered excuse to the Count, cordial nods to the other gentlemen before he slipped gratefully into the anonymity of the crowd. He supposed that he should have come up with a more convincing reason for the count than ‘Your grace, if I do not leave immediately, this conversation will drive me to violence’, but nothing had been readily to hand. He smiled to himself. The look of surprise on the Count’s face had been worth it, even if he was going to hear about it later.

He drifted awhile, mingling around the small clusters of people that dotted the room. Snatches of conversation reached him, but he found himself unable to truly concentrate on what was being said. He noted with distant surprise that it had very little to do with the war, the peace, or anything of substance. From the snippets he picked up, it was mostly about music, dinner parties, and who had done what to whom at the last important social event. He sighed. Inane people, it seemed, were not unique features of the German diplomatic circles he usually frequented. Captivating conversation always seemed to be at a premium. He found himself a place by one of the ornate pillars that lined the dancefloor and settled in to watch the parade of people. It was probably ridiculous, but it felt…better, more secure, protected as he was by the pillar on the right. Less like someone could sneak up on him in this vast room.

“Were you looking for me, Herr Skywalker?” Luke’s hand twitched, but he managed not to jump. He looked to his left and saw Dameron grinning that insolent grin. He held out a hand, offering him a glass of golden liquid that sparkled in the light of the chandeliers. 

“No, just watching the spectacle,” Luke answered evenly, taking the proffered glass. He savagely repressed the voice at the back of his mind that reminded that this was, in fact, exactly who he had been looking for. He took a sip of the drink, which turned out to be a delightfully smooth scotch. “Where did you find this?” he asked, raising the glass a half inch.

“Oh, I asked one of the staff if there was something to drink besides that awful champagne, and this is what he gave me. Is it good?” Luke noticed belatedly that Dameron was not holding a glass of his own. For some reason, this troubled him.

“Yes, it’s quite good, thank you for finding it.” Dameron’s smile lit up his face, and Luke found it suddenly a bit too warm in the ballroom.

“I’m glad you managed to get yourself away from that horrendous conversation you were chained to,” Dameron said conversationally, “It looked like it was a bit of a struggle for you.”

“That is one word for it, yes,” Luke agreed. He took another sip of the scotch. Regardless of the implications, it would be unconscionably rude for him not to drink it at this point.

Dameron looked about the room as though surveying an estate of supremely disappointing quality. “You know, this kind of thing really isn’t my speed. I only showed up because the Colonel told me I had to.” He sounded pained. 

“Oh yes?" 

"Yes.” He drew a pocket watch from the vest of his dress uniform and studied it with an air of exaggerated care. Then he looked over to Luke, eyebrows raised. “I’ve got a pressing engagement at a much better venue with infinitely better company. Care to come along?" 

Luke hesitated. "What kind of engagement?” he hedged. Dameron smiled.

“Bertie and some of the lads are waiting for me at the Jolie Rose in bas-de-Montmartre. It’s a fairly quiet place, and the music is absolutely divine.” 

“And when you say company…?” Luke inquired suspiciously. This was Paris, after all. He knew very well the kinds of things that went on here. At least he thought he did. Dameron looked at him in surprise for the space of a heartbeat, then he began to laugh, long and sincerely, his shoulders shaking with mirth. 

“Are you quite finished?” Luke asked, somewhat needled by the young man’s amusement at his expense.

“Ah, I’m sorry Herr Skywalker, I shouldn’t laugh at you.” Dameron put a hand on Luke’s shoulder, his face composed into an expression of mock seriousness. “I give you my word as an honourable soldier, Herr Skywalker, that if I ever take you to a cathouse, I will provide you with fair warning. Do you trust me?”

“Not remotely,” Luke said sardonically, “but I suppose the guarantee will have to do for now.”

“Where you get up to on your own, on the other hand,” Dameron quipped as they walked out of the ballroom, “is entirely your own problem.”

*

“So, tell me something, Herr Dameron,” Luke asked as they walked down the cobbled streets of Paris towards bas-de-Montmartre, “How on earth did you wind up here?”

Poe smiled, pleased with the question. “Colonel Grove asked me to come along,” he said with a shrug. He didn’t tell Luke his other reasons.

“Just like that?” Luke raised an eyebrow.

Poe smiled. “No, not quite ‘just like that’,” he allowed. “Pilots don’t really have that long of a lifespan, so I moved up the ranks pretty quickly once I started. By the time the end of the war came around, I was one of the only people who had been around long enough to know the ropes, which things were supposed to go where, and how the Colonel liked his coffee. So he hired me onto his staff. Mostly for the coffee, I think, but it didn’t really matter at the time. When the war was over, the Colonel offered me a spot on the British Air delegation as his adjutant, so I decided to accept. I mean, where else am I going to learn everything I’m learning here?” He watched as Luke thoughtfully digested this information and, for one small moment, Poe thought he was going to ask him another question. He tensed. He didn’t know why, but for he felt something in him recoil at having to tell Luke about his father. An instinct, perhaps, that the carefully bottled grief that he only allowed himself to savour in small sips would come pouring forth.

“I see.” Poe released a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “And are you enjoying your time in Paris?”

“Absolutely. Just look around you, Herr Skywalker! This city is bar far one of the most amazing places in the world. The century’s young and full of life, and so is Paris.” Luke laughed softly, and Poe flushed, realizing that he was waxing perhaps more eloquent than was required.

“No, don’t stop,” Luke encouraged gently, “it is wonderful to hear you speak with such enthusiasm. What is it, do you think, that gives Paris its life?”

Poe shrugged, “I think it’s the people. We…we know what it’s like to lose. If the war taught us anything, it’s that life is far too fragile to spend it doing anything less than what you love. When 50 million men can be swept away in a ridiculous international power game, what choice does that leave us lesser folk except to live as much as we can as long as we can?”

“Yes,” Luke mused, "Yes, I see your point.“ It was also, Poe knew, a way to forget. To allow oneself to be wrapped up and caressed by the light, the beauty, the music, the flavour of life and to forget the things that had been seen and heard in muddy ditches across Europe.

"And, if you’re going to live life, the Jolie Rose is one of the best places to do it,” he continued. “As far as I’ve been able to find out, they’ve got the best music in the city here.”

“Well, I’ll have to take your word for it,” Luke said with a small smile.

*

As they approached Paris’s lively cabaret district, Luke noticed a sharp increase in the number of men and women who stopped to greet them. Well, to greet Dameron. He seemed to know everyone, and handled every engagement with the same easy grace he had shown in the ballroom. He greeted each person by name and asked after their health, their pets, their families, and wished them good evening. Each person left feeling as though Poe Dameron cared personally and deeply about their lives and their troubles. It was a magical gift, Luke observed with a sense of wonder. The truly amazing thing about it was that, despite his air of disheveled nonchalance, Poe did seem to care -really, truly care- about these people. It wasn’t an act, or a show, but genuine goodwill. It was amazing to watch.

As they approached the end of the street, Poe walked over to a small side door, wedged in between two larger establishments. He held it open for Luke, gesturing for him to enter first. Luke did so, and was instantly hit with a wall of smoke, noise, and the smell of several people of dubious levels of cleanliness packed very close together. And the…noise…coming from the back of the place was…

Luke didn’t have time to decide what it was, because Poe had grasped him by the arm and was pulling him toward a table in a far corner. A group of men sat around it, smoking, laughing, and talking animatedly in at least three different languages that Luke could hear, and perhaps a couple more that he couldn’t.

“Come on,” Poe said in his ear, “I’ll introduce you to everyone.” Luke wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that, but he allowed himself to be led towards the table. He recognized the small, solidly built frame of Poe’s former navigator. As he sat, the man reached out a heavy hand.

“Group Captain!” he said warmly, “Good to see you sir!” Luke took the proffered hand in his and shook it, touched that the man had offered him his left hand, apparently without a moment’s thought.

“A pleasure to see you as well, Mr. Brown,” he said with a smile. The man made a face, “Please, it’s Bertie here, sir.”  
“As you wish, but only if you’ll drop my rank,” Luke agreed with a smile, “Herr Skywalker will do quite well enough.” The man laughed an nodded his agreement. Poe sat heavily down beside him. He had taken off his uniform jacket and draped if over the back of the chair. With his arms stretched back, hands clasped behind his head, an air of relaxation seemed to roll off of him, easing some of Luke’s own nervous tension.

“Well, how was the high toned soirée?” A tall, gaunt man with a mop of dark hair asked Poe.

“Perfectly awful,” Poe said with a roll of his eyes, pouring a glass of something suspiciously clear from the bottle in the centre of the table. He passed it to Luke and poured himself a second glass.

“Gents, this is Herr Skywalker, a friend of mine. He’s here with the German delegation for the conference.” There was a slight pause, then a square-faced man with pale blue eyes and a scar across his face peered closely at him.

“Not… the Herr Skywalker?” he asked in thickly accented English. Luke recognized the tones of his homeland there.

“No, just a Herr Skywalker, Dieter,” Poe shot back with a wicked grin, “Haven’t you heard he’s a bulk special?” The German shot him a look and held out a hand toward Luke.

“Pleasure to have you here, sir.” he said with a cordial nod. Luke returned the nod, keeping his right wrist firmly in his pocket.

“Thank you.” Mercifully, Poe was beginning the rest of the introductions, and so he did not have to explain why he had not taken the man’s hand.

“Herr Skywalker, this is Alec,” the gaunt, dark-haired man gave him a nod, “Martin is nursing the whiskey over there, Nikki’s the one who looks like he’ll murder you, but he’s really just a kitten,” A slim, dangerous-looking man, presumably Nikki, gave Luke a friendly grin that seemed out of sorts with the rest of his body.

“And this is Aiden. You’ve met Bertie and Dieter already.” Poe smiled grinned at the assembled men. “So has anyone seen Mariette yet this evening?”

“She came by about an hour ago, looking for you, said she’d be back around midnight, once she was done at the Moulin,” a round-faced, red-haired man said. Luke thought he might be Martin, but he was distracted by the subject of conversation. He didn’t know who Mariette was, but she was obviously of some significance in Poe’s life. The revelation irked him in a way that he only half understood, and did not really care to examine.

“So, have you laid eyes on that treaty yet, Dameron?” asked Aiden, a slight, compact man with a very thick accent to his English that Luke didn’t recognize. It might have been anything from Welsh to Scottish, he wouldn’t know.

“If I had, I wouldn’t be able to tell you, would I?” Poe said primly, taking a long pull from his glass.

“Which means no,” Nikki remarked sardonically from over his glass of ale.

Poe, undeterred, raised his glass. “To peace and goodwill for all of us! May the treaty be everything it should.”

“You mean, may it not be utter rubbish,” Aiden quipped as they all took a drink.

“How could it not be rubbish?” inquired a dusky voice from behind them, “Monsieur Dameron had a hand in writing it.” Luke looked over his shoulder to see a tall woman eyeing them with mock disdain. She had long curly dark hair that fell nearly to her waist, and big, dark eyes set into her finely etched features. She was wearing a good deal less clothing than most women Luke had had occasion to meet, but what caught his attention was the complete and utter command in her presence. She reminded him of his sister, if several shades darker and more…well, there was just more of her.

“Mariette, I’ve told you at least eight times that I did nothing more strenuous at those meetings than hold the Colonel’s briefcase,” Poe protested mildly.

“Certainement, mon cher,” the woman replied. She wrapped a graceful arm about Poe’s shoulders and leaned down to him, kissing him full on the mouth. To his surprise, Luke felt something sinking inside him as he watched them. The way Poe smiled at her, pulled out her chair so she could sit at his right hand. The way she…handled him. Comfortable, assured. It shouldn’t bother him, he reminded himself, it wasn’t as though he had any claim on Poe’s affections. And yet…

“Who is this, then?” the woman called Mariette asked, eyeing Luke up and down in a way that made him distinctly uncomfortable.

“This is Herr Skywalker. Herr Skywalker, this is Mariette, another true member of our little company.”

Mariette’s eyebrows rose and she glanced at Poe briefly before turning her gaze back to Luke. “Ah, the famous Herr Skywalker,” she said softly. “Monsieur Dameron had told me a good deal about you.” She held out her hand towards him. Her left hand. Somewhat hesitantly, he took it. Her grip was strong, self-assured, as he had anticipated, but also strangely…comforting? How a handshake could be comforting, he wasn’t quite sure, but when her palm slid away from his he had the sense that she had released a tension he hadn’t known was there.

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Madamoiselle,” He said politely, “I’ve heard nothing of you.”

Mariette smirked, “Well, that’s probably for the better,” she said, and the men at the table laughed. Mariette reached for the bottle and refilled Luke’s glass. “Have another drink, Herr Skywalker,” she said warmly, “You look like you need to relax.”

*

The night rolled on. Most of the patrons had trickled out of the club, and their group had moved slowly closer to the stage. Poe could tell that Luke was making a solid effort to dislike the music. It seemed like a matter of principle to him. Not that Poe was really surprised. Rag had received a mixed reception in the loose, liberal-minded streets of bas-de-Montmartre, and if there were people here who complained that it sounded like some vulgar sort of key mashing with a jarring melodic line and…distracting rhythm, he couldn’t imagine what a man like Luke was thinking about it.

Poe sat on the piano bench next to Nikki, swaying gently as the man played. He was a bloody genius on the piano, second only to Jean-Marc, the club’s music manager and pianist. The two had been engaged in an on-again off-again duel for weeks, trying to decide which of them truly was the best musician.The smart money in their impromptu betting pool was on Nikki, but Jean-Marc was unlikely to concede defeat easily, so they would be in for a good deal more excellent music before the summer was out.

Poe took a swig from the bottle in his hand, and allowed his eyes to slide across the dark club to where Luke sat, engaged in an animated conversation with Dieter, Aiden, and Mariette. His face was lit by an inner fire, and he was clearly discoursing at some length on a subject he was quite passionate about. Poe smiled. Clearly, Luke should drink more often.

Mariette looked up at that moment, and saw him staring at them. She smiled widely and gestured for him to join them. He stood, somewhat unsteadily, and made his way over to them. As he approached, she called, “Monsieur Dameron, your friend here is attempting to convince me that Schubert is a more worthy musician than our young Nikki. I need you to help me convince him otherwise.”

Luke looked up as he sat down, and Poe noticed that his cheeks were somewhat flushed and his eyes bright. He felt a glow of warmth in his stomach, seeing Luke relaxed, and speaking of something that had clearly sparked the passion that Poe had only seen when the man spoke of poetry.

“I was only saying,” Luke corrected Mariette, “That Schubert’s genius is of a different quality. This…kind of music has its appeal, undoubtedly, but there is something deeply moving about Schubert’s lieder, a depth of emotion that this kind of music can only dream of evoking.”

“Well, maybe it’s just different emotions,” Poe suggested, seating himself carefully on a stool at the table. He had had a fair bit of wine and whiskey this evening, and was starting to feel it a bit.

Luke frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Just what I said. Schubert wrote some really excellent music, I would never try to dispute that. And a lot of it is, as you say, very evocative. But I think it evokes a kind of…I don’t know. It’s a strong emotion, but it’s a controlled one.” Poe searched for an example that would help to illustrate his point. He appealed to Mariette. “Mariette, if you had to choose to dance to Schubert, or Nikki’s rag, which would you pick?” Mariette seemed to consider this point seriously.

“I think it would depend on what I was dancing for,” she said with a grin. Aiden laughed.

“Exactly,” Poe said, “each of the two musicians in question have their merits, and evoke an emotion, they’re simply very different emotions.”

“Well, that is the opinion of a highly trained professional,” Luke countered, as though that somehow put Poe out of court.

“But that’s just my point!” Poe insisted, gesturing with the wine bottle.

“It is?” Mariette seemed sceptical

“Yes! You’re a professional, Mariette, you could dance to Schubert lieder and make it every bit as alluring as dancing to Nikki’s rag tunes. But my point is that Nikki’s rag tunes make it possible for even a layman, someone like me, or like Aidan, to be just as alluring as you are. It’s just…part of the music.”

“Oh yes?” Mariette raised one long dark eyebrow, and Poe realized what he had just said. Well, there was no backing down from it now.

“Yes.”

“So you think that, if we both were to dance to Nikki’s music, you could be just as…effective as I am?” Mariette’s voice was a low purr.

“Yeah, I think I could.” Poe took a swig of the wine bottle, knowing what was coming next, and cursing himself for not seeing it coming sooner.

“Prove it.”

Poe sighed and took a longer drink from the bottle, setting it down heavily on the table as he stood. “Alright, I will.” He looked over at Luke, who was seeming a bit lost by the direction that the conversation had taken. “And I think that Herr Skywalker should be my test subject, given that he is already disposed against our Nikki. It will make the test more rigorous.”

“Very well,” Mariette agreed. “If Herr Skywalker agrees that you are as alluring as I might be dancing to Schubert lieder, than I will concede your point. Would you agree, Herr Skywalker? For the sake of my reputation?”

Luke drained his glass and turned in his seat, a defiant look on his face as he stared up at Poe. “Well, if the lady’s reputation is at stake, I can hardly say no, can I?”

“Of course not,” Poe gave him a wink and walked back across the bar to where Nikki sat at the piano, still playing soulfully. Poe laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Nikki,” he said softly in the man’s ear, “Play something sultry for me.”

It was possible that what came out of the piano next wasn’t strictly rag, but Poe didn’t really care. He paused, looking down at the floor of the bar and letting the music fill him up, creeping into his body, under his skin. He reached up and loosened his tie. Taking a step towards the table, he raised his eyes, locking them on Luke’s. The driving rhythm, the snap of the melody, it had him. Luke’s eyes widened, and Poe grinned. He took a deep breath, letting something inside of him release, and his body followed the instructions it heard in the notes that drifted from the piano. He slid a hand up from his hip to his throat, a gesture of presentation, of invitation.

Slowly, following the lead of Nikki’s plaintive melody line, he grasped the knot of his tie and drew it carefully down until the silk hung loose about his neck. Then, with a decisive flick of his wrist, he snapped it from his neck and held it, dangling out over the floor for a half second before he let it fall to the floor. He could feel Luke’s gaze burning into him with the heat of a flame, and Poe felt something swell in his chest at the mix of emotions he saw in the man’s face. Apprehension? Wonder? Desire, certainly. He let his feet follow the music, stepping to the side, flowing back and forth, tapping out the counterpoint to Nikki’s music. He came closer to Luke. Closer. Close enough to tease, but not to touch. Just out of reach. Then, on cue from the piano, he took a bold step closer, forcing Luke’s knees apart slightly. With a rush of satisfaction, Poe saw the bulge between Luke’s legs, watched the red creep up his neck to his face. The music climbed into a soaring crescendo, the clustered notes raising the hair on the back of Poe’s arms, and he bent close, their faces a hair’s breadth apart. The air seemed to crackle between them until, with a flourish, the music came to its penultimate beat, and he dropped to one knee between Luke’s legs, a hand pressed against his chest. He took a slow, deep breath, still feeling the heat of the blood in his veins, the beat of the music still mirrored in the flow of his breath. 

He came slowly back to himself as Mariette began to clap. “I take your point very well, Monsieur Dameron,” she said, a smile brightening her face.

“And you, Herr Skywalker?” Poe asked, looking up into Luke’s face. “Have I won my bet?”

Luke looked down at him, and Poe felt a sudden heat bloom below his belt.

“Yes,” Luke said hoarsely, “Yes, I think you did.”   
*  
The moon had risen high in the sky by the time they stumbled out of the Jolie Rose. Luke was grateful for the chill in the night; it washed over him like a bucket of ice-water and cleared some of the alcohol and Poe Dameron-induced haze from his mind.

He was distantly alarmed at the changes that such a large quantity of alcohol had wrought on his body. His limbs were still there -at least he thought they were-but they felt strangely light, as though they did not really belong to him, and he still hummed with a warm, tingling feeling that was not entirely due to the alcohol.

“Shall I walk you back to your hotel, Herr Skywalker?” Poe asked him as the rest of their little group disappeared into the night. Luke saw Bertie give Poe a long, searching look before he turned away and walked down the street away from them. Luke filed the observation away for later inspection before answering Poe’s question.

“I think you had better,” he said, “I’m not at all sure that I know the way, and I don’t relish the thought of sleeping in a park.” Poe laughed, and Luke felt a pleasant blooming of that tingling, hazy warmth in his body as they began to make their way back up the street. He was interested to observe that, despite his expectation, copious amounts of liquor seemed to have made Poe into a distilled, more concentrated version of himself. The colour had risen to his cheeks, and his dark eyes sparkled in the pooled light of the streetlamps. He was, Luke observed with a distant part of himself, really quite a beautiful man.

Poe turned to look at him, and Luke dropped his eyes, realizing suddenly that he had been staring. “Have I got something on my face, Herr Skywalker?” Luke glanced up. He had that same impish grin on his face, the same one he had worn when he had looked up at him from between his…

He coughed slightly, embarrassed to feel the heat that suffused his face, creeping down the back of his neck. “No, your face is quite fine.”

“How did you like the Rose?” Poe asked him. There was an anxious quality to his voice, as though he really cared about Luke’s opinion of the place.

“It was quite interesting,” Luke said after a moment’s thought. “Certainly…how did you put it? Ah, yes. Full of life. There was a lot of that around.”

A frown gathered on Poe’s brow. “I’m sorry if it wasn’t your kind of place. If you didn’t like it-”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Luke corrected. “It’s not the sort of place I would usually go on my own, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy myself.”

“Oh, that’s good then. How did you like Mariette? She was very interested to meet you.”

Luke frowned, shocked by this revelation. “She was? Why?” Poe shrugged, suddenly looking a bit embarrassed.

“Well, I told her about you. She said you sounded interesting.”

“I see,” Luke responded, even though he didn’t. Not remotely. “She seems like a lovely woman. Knows a lot about…the world.” He hesitated a moment, but the words seemed to keep creeping out of him, whether he wanted them to or not. “Are you happy with her?”

Poe gave him a puzzled look. “With her? What do you- oh!” His eyes widened, and then he began to laugh. “No, Herr Skywalker, it’s not like that. Mariette’s just a very good friend.”

Luke frowned in confusion. “Good friends kiss one another here, do they?” Poe gave him a pitying look.

“You’ve never been to Paris before, have you, Herr Skywalker?” It was a statement, not a question, and so Luke was spared the embarrassment of having to answer it truthfully. Poe just smiled. “Yes, a chaste kiss on the lips is an accepted greeting among friends here.”

“Ah. Well.” Luke was struggling to master his words, fighting down the ridiculous swell of relief and hope that had filled his body when Poe had called Mariette ‘just a very good friend’. He was still trying as they turned out of their small street onto a long, broad avenue. It was still filled with people, even at such a late hour, and the air became filled with the gentle hum of conversation and the soft click of footsteps. As they walked along the wide sidewalk, two top-hatted and tail-coated gentlemen stepped out of a pub, sticks in hand and an argument in their voices.

“This looks interesting,” Poe murmured as they approached. The first man had a ridiculously opulent moustache, groomed and waxed to perfection. As he stepped out into the sidewalk, it quivered with suppressed emotion, giving him the air of an irate walrus.

“How dare you even suggest such a thing, sir!” the man slurred, a ruddy hue to her cheeks. The other gentleman, a sallow complexioned fellow with a thin strip of hair over his top lip that he probably called a moustache, sneered at him.

“Sir, you are an utter buffoon, and such a suggestion is in no way beyond boundaries of comprehension, as any decent scholar of the Bard would no doubt be able to inform you.”

“It is in no way clear from the analysis of the Promus of Formularies and Elegancies that there are any distinct parallels whatsoever between Bacon’s writings and Shakespeare’s. The theory is exactly the opposite of compelling, and you cannot deny it!” The fat man’s jowls shook with the force of his vitriol.

“I can and I do!” 

Luke was certain, from the palpable tension in the air, that the two men were about to come to blows. To his shock, however, Poe stepped smoothly between them. “Gentlemen, please,” he said calmly, “I’m sure that I can shed some light on this situation.” The two men looked at him in no small amount of confusion.

“Who are you?” the sallow-faced man looked down at Poe in disdain, taking in his somewhat…deshabillé appearance. In all fairness, gentlemen did not usually go about with their ties looped around their necks and their shirt buttons undone halfway to their navels. Not that Luke minded all that terribly much.

“A friend to this ground, and liegeman to the Dane,” Poe responded, sketching a passable imitation of a courtly bow. The fat man laughed aloud in delight at the look of consternation on the sallow man’s face.

“Then we shall call you Horatio!” he exclaimed, “and beg you speak to this ghost of our argument!”

“Marry, what is’t?” Luke could hardly believe that these words were coming out of Poe’s mouth. Of all the places he would never have expected to find himself, listening to Poe Dameron quote Shakespeare at two well-dressed English gentlemen on a street in Paris would have been close to the top of the list.

“My colleague,” the sallow-faced man interjected, “Insists that there is no evidence to support the relatively new theory that Shakespeare’s works were not, in fact, penned by the man himself, but by Sir Francis Bacon. There is ample evidence to support the claim, all of which he refuses to account for.”

Luke was unable to help the scoff of disbelief that escaped him. The three men turned to face him, and he saw look of contempt crawl across the sallow man’s face as the man took in his uniform. “And what would a German,” he sneered, “know about English literature?”

“Rather more than you would think,” Luke responded coolly, needled by the arrogance in the man’s bearing.

The sallow man opened his mouth to speak, his face twisted into a look of distaste, but Poe leaned close to Luke, interrupting the man, “I think he means to tangle our eyes too!” he hissed in a stage whisper. He spun on his heel, turning to face the sallow gentleman, a look of pity on his face. “No, faith, proud mistress,” he said kindly, “hope not after it: 'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair,  
Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream, That can entame our spirits to your worship.” The sallow man’s eyes widened in shocked outrage, but Poe had left him, stepping quickly to the side of the fat man, who was having some difficulty keeping his amusement from his face.

“You foolish shepherd, wherefore do you follow him, like foggy south puffing with wind and rain?” Poe said earnestly, grasping the fat man’s arm and shaking it lightly. Luke saw him glance up, a grin on his face. He knew, with the rational part of his mind, that he should be playing the role of the reasonable gentleman in all this, but he smiled, egged on by the liquor in his blood and the mischievous complicity in Poe’s gaze.

“'Tis not his glass, but you, that flatters him;” he said gently to the fat man, letting himself be caught up in Poe’s game, “And out of you he sees himself more proper than any of his lineaments can show him.” By this time, the walrus-faced gentleman was shaking with rich gusts of laughter, delighted by their impromptu pantomime.

“This is utterly absurd,” the sallow-faced man hissed. He clearly knew enough of the Bard’s works to know that they were mocking him, and cared very little for it.

A frown leapt to Poe’s face, sudden as a storm over the sea, and he sprang close to the sallow man. In one fluid motion, he swept the man’s elegant silk top hat from his head and placed it atop his own ebony curls, inadvertently revealing that the thin gentleman was quite bald.

“But, master!” he cried, the very picture of the chiding Ganymede, “Know thyself!” He reached up suddenly, catching the man by surprise, and took hold of his tie, pulling him down to kneel on the cobbles, “Down on your knees, and thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love: For I must tell you friendly in your ear,” he bent low and spoke in the stage whisper once more, “Sell when you can: you are not for all markets.” He stood back, arms thrown wide in an expansive gesture, encompassing the fat man and drawing him into their tableau, “Cry the man mercy; love him, take his offer: Fouls is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer.” The sallow man sprang to his feet, red in the face and shaking with anger, but Poe merely grinned and gave him a cheeky wink.

The man lunged suddenly, swinging his arm wildly in an attempt to connect with Poe’s cheek, but Poe danced back, laughing wildly, and took to his heels, running off down the street.

Luke, a wide grin on his own face, bowed quickly to the fat man. “So take him to thee, shepherd: fare you well!” he called over his shoulder as he followed after Poe, who still had the sallow man’s top hat resting jauntily on his head.

*

They didn’t stop running until they were nearly to the hotel. The sallow man had followed them for several blocks, and Poe ducked them down an alley, over a fence, brought them finally to a stop, breathless, laughing, and flushed with their escape, leaning on the brick wall of a darkened bakery.

“Where on earth did you learn so much Shakespeare?” Luke asked as their laughter subsided. The grin on Poe’s face was bright spot in the soft glow of the street lamp.

“I’ll have you know, Herr Skywalker,” he said archly, “that I had a great talent for Shakespearean acting in my youth.”

“You’re still in your youth,” Luke reminded him.

“Regardless,” Poe waved a dismissive hand, “A good friend challenged me to take a part in the drama group’s production of 'As You Like It’,” he spread his hands, looking helplessly back at Luke, “What can I say? I became a hopeless devotee. That Bill Shakespeare wrote some really fabulous stuff.”

“Well, that’s one way to put it,” Luke agreed with a chuckle.

“And you!” Poe exclaimed, clapping a hand onto Luke’s shoulder, “Where did you pull all of that from? You had every line I missed!”

“Well, it is rather difficult to study English literature without studying Shakespeare,” Luke looked down at the cobbles, feeling a warm glow of pleasure at Poe’s praise.

“Fair enough,” Poe agreed. He peeked his head around the mouth of the alley, and Luke told himself firmly that he was not, was not, going to be entranced by the way the golden light of the street lamp played over the planes of Poe’s face, caught in those artfully tousled curls like tiny stars.

“I think I even got you back to your hotel, Herr Skywalker.” The comment dragged Luke’s attention back to Poe’s mischievous eyes, the half-smile that hung on his face.

“Well, then I suppose I should make a dignified retreat.” Luke could feel his heart pick up as he moved towards the edge of the alley, closer to Poe. He was never sure, after, why he had done it. Perhaps it was the same crazy urge that came to him sometimes when he stood in high places and contemplated throwing himself off. Perhaps it was recompense for all the leave-takings that had gone before it. Or perhaps it was all down to adrenaline, alcohol, and that strange fluttering he could feel in his belly when he saw Poe smile at him.

Whatever the reason, he took a step over the edge, and pressed Poe back against the cool brick wall, letting everything go as he gloried in the rush of flight as their lips met. Poe stiffened momentarily, surprised, but then Luke felt his hands slide over his hips, up his back, over his shoulders, catching him, pulling him safe and close. Luke drew a sharp breath, reaching up to run his hand through those soft, glorious curls. The…sound that Poe made at the feel of Luke’s hand in his hair…Luke shivered. He felt…something strange, something powerful, and as the feeling rose up inside his body, lighting his nerves on fire, he felt the fear follow close on its heels. His body burned, but his skin was cold, and he pulled away, gasping for breath, unwilling to let himself slip into waters that he feared would drown him.

The two of them stood in the cool night air, eyes locked, panting slightly, faces flushed. Luke drew a trembling hand down the elegant curve of Poe’s cheek and jaw, a light caress that left a tingling sensation on the palm of his hand.

“Guten Abend, Herr Dameron,” Luke was surprised to hear the tremor in his own voice.

Poe took Luke’s left hand in both of his and raised it to his lips, the warmth of his kiss causing Luke to shiver in the cool breeze.

“Sleep well, Herr Skywalker.”


	6. 7th May, 1919. Paris, France.

Anyone who thought that holding a highly important meeting in a cramped, overheated room packed with puffed up peacocks on an unseasonably warm spring day like this was an idiot. Poe wasn’t sure who had organized this stage of the conference, but they certainly weren’t going to be winning any awards for clever planning. His uniform stuck to his back, and he felt a small trickle of sweat run down his back. The atmosphere didn’t help either, you could have sliced through the tension in the room with a knife, it was so palpable.

Several sheaves of paper were spread across the desk, and several stiff-backed men arrayed around it. Poe could see Luke, his face a mask of nervous apprehension as the Allied delegates prepared to read the terms of the freshly prepared Treaty of Versailles aloud to the assembled crowd.

David Lloyd-George cleared his throat. He looked nervous. Poe noticed that little twitch of the Prime Minister’s left eye, as he began to speak. “Gentlemen,” he began, addressing the German delegation, “thank you for coming. This conference has been a long labour for all of us, and we look forward to bringing it to a successful conclusion as swiftly as possible.” His words, as always, sounded smooth and well-polished, though somewhat undermined by the tremor in his voice.

The German Count, still as impressively dour looking as the evening Poe had first seen him, nodded stiffly. Combined with the dark look in the man’s small, watery eyes, it seemed a perfect way of saying ‘get on with it, you bastard’.

Drawing a deep breath as though summoning himself to face a firing squad, Lloyd-George began to read. “The terms of the Treaty are as follows: First, the covenant of the League of Nations…” This part didn’t sound so bad. A waste of time, perhaps, but not all that terrible. Poe watched as Luke’s shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit. The air of tension in the room eased slightly. But the treaty hadn’t gotten into its full stride yet.

Poe listened in shocked silence as the Prime Minister continued. It was only the deeply ingrained rule that one always stood to attention in official circumstances that kept his jaw from dropping. A 25,000 square mile reduction in German territory. The loss of Alsace-Lorraine to France. Production of the Saar coal mines to France, and control of the territory to the League of Nations. Polish independence. The establishment of the Free City of Danzig. Plebiscites to be held in Belgium and Schleswig-Holstein. Every inch of tension that had dropped from Luke’s shoulders had returned with redoubled vigour.

By the end of the third clause, the room had begun to rustle. Military restrictions. Prohibition of an air force, as well as participation in arms development and manufacturing. Reduction of the infantry and navy. When Lloyd-George began to read article 231, Poe honestly thought for a moment that Luke was going to lose his composure. His jaw clenched tight, and Poe could feel that same ice-cold wave of rage rolling off of the man, that same electric dread that he had felt on that cold April morning when he had thought he was going to die. Only this was a thousand times worse, because this was now.

“The Allied and Associated Governments affirm and Germany accepts the responsibility of Germany and her allies for causing all the loss and damage to which the Allied and Associated Governments and their nationals have been subjected as a consequence of the war imposed upon them by the aggression of Germany and her allies.” Luke’s mouth was a thin, hard line, and Poe could tell that he was struggling to keep a hold on his emotions.

The Prime Minister read for another hour. As each blow fell, Poe watched the rising heat of German anger from the other side of the table. When Lloyd-George had finally finished, the room sat in agonized silence. After several heartbeats, Count Brockdorff-Rantzau rose to his feet, followed by the rest of his delegation. His voice was flat and hard.

“We now know the full brunt of hate that confronts us here.” Lloyd-George looked about to speak, perhaps to utter some platitude, but the Count’s voice cut straight across him. “You demand from us to confess we were the only guilty party of war; such a confession in my mouth would be a lie. Gentlemen,” he wrung the last word from his mouth with obvious distaste, “I must bid you farewell. I cannot, will not, put my name to such a disgraceful document.” That said, the Count swept from the room, Luke and the other German delegates at his heels.

The door had barely closed behind them when the tide of angry voices rose in the small room. “Excuse me, sir,” Poe said hurriedly to the Colonel, and began to shoulder his way through the crowd of irate diplomats, his eyes fixed on the door. He wasn’t sure he could have said why, but he knew that it was very important for him to speak to Luke.

He won free of the press of people and raced through the hallway and down the stairs, taking them two at a time, heart pounding in his ears. He caught up with the German delegation just as the Count was stepping into a taxi.

“Herr Skywalker!” he called, skidding onto the sidewalk. Luke turned, one hand slightly raised as if to ward off Poe’s words, and the look on his face hit Poe like a slap. He stopped abruptly, frozen in place by the terrible look of anger in those cold blue eyes. All thoughts of apologies and condolences fled from his mind as he and Luke stood staring at one another in the sunshine. There were, he realized, no words that could make this better. All he could do was stand there, helpless, and watch as Luke turned his back on him and stepped into the taxi.

He stood there amid the sudden onslaught as a tide of journalists and on-lookers swarmed about him, watching until the taxi dwindled into the distance and disappeared.   
*  
The sweet scent of frying onions and mushrooms rose in Poe’s nostrils as he mounted the stairs to the tiny flat he shared with Bertie in the rue Savard. He had shed his jacket on the long walk back from the conference, and he dropped it unceremoniously into a chair as he entered the room. His tie followed it the jacket as he lowered himself onto their small sofa with a long sigh.

“So, how did the Treaty turn out?” Bertie asked, not turning from his work at the stove.

“Fucking awful,” Poe let his head drop to his hands. He glared at the floor.

“There are some tomatoes on the board there that need cutting,” Bertie said by way of response.

“I mean it, Bertie, it was a complete and total bloody trainwreck,” Poe said hollowly.

“So, get up and slice the tomatoes,” Bertie’s voice, low and calm as always, soothed his jangled nerves.

“Yeah, alright.”

For several long moments, Poe devoted his complete and total concentration to the snick-chunk of the knife on the board as he sliced the fresh tomatoes Bertie had brought home from the market. He never could manage to get the damned things into decent slices without getting tomato juice everywhere. Perhaps the knife needed sharpening. He had finished the tomatoes and moved on to slicing up the crusty baguette that Bertie passed him before his friend spoke.

“Tell me about it.” Poe did. He related, with increasing ire, the terms of the ridiculous treaty. He knew they had won. It was understandable that Germany would have to make some restitution, but this…this was highway robbery, and he felt stained in some way to have been a part of it.

“They even made them admit guilt for the whole war. And you can’t tell me that makes any sense, because there sure as hell weren’t any Germans at Gallipoli. And what about Austria?” He subsided into frustrated silence.

“Herr Skywalker was upset?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” The smell of cooking beef joined the onions and mushrooms. “Well, I don’t suppose you’ll be staying for supper.”

The knife hovered over the baguette. “What?”

Bertie appeared to be ignoring him as he bustled about the kitchen, pulling food from various places and packing it into the paper bag that had carried their evening meal home from the market. Cheese from the cupboard, a roll of something that looked like salami. Several slices of the baguette. A bottle of claret. A bunch of ripe grapes. After the napkins and tin mugs went into the bag, Poe felt he really ought to ask what the hell was going on.

“Bertie, what are you doing?” he asked incredulously, “Why am I not staying to supper?”

Bertie looked up at him, a patient expression on his broad, rough-hewn features. “Poe, Herr Skywalker is penned up with a room full of angry Germans a long way from home. He’s frustrated and angry himself, and I’m sure that what he needs more than anything is a friendly ear and a good long walk.” He placed the bag in Poe’s hands and pushed him gently toward the door.

“Bertie, you didn’t see his face,” Poe protested. “He wasn’t just angry, he was…” he shivered, “I-I don’t think he really wants to talk to me right now.”

“The worst he can do is send you away,” Bertie said. Poe knew from that matter-of fact tone that it would do him very little good at all to argue, though he felt very keenly that, in the kind of mood he had seen this afternoon, Herr Skywalker could do a hell of a lot worse to him than send him away.

Nevertheless, he knew that Bertie had been mostly right. What kind of man would he be if he let his friend deal with such a horrendous disappointment all alone? If he didn’t at least try to apologize?

Which was how he found himself standing outside the back entrance of the Hotel Lotti in the cool evening breeze, striking up a conversation with the concierge.

“Short angry fellow, very blue eyes?” The concierge inquired, holding a hand out in the air about where Luke’s head might have been.

“Oui,” Poe said enthusiastically. The concierge sucked his teeth and shook his head apologetically. 

“Ah, je suis desolé monsieur, the gentleman left in a…état de désordre a few moments before you arrived.”

“Of course he did,” Poe sighed.

“If you want to follow him, I think he mentioned something to the lobby boy about taking a walk along the Seine, monsieur,” the concierge added helpfully, “something about clearing his head, I think.”

“Thank you, monsieur, you’ve been very helpful,” Poe said hurriedly, passing the man a few francs as he stepped back out into the alley. If he cut through the Tuileries, he could be on the banks of the Seine in a few moments. Not that the banks of the entire river were a small area to search, but it would at least be a place to start.

The weather was beautiful, and the promise of spring had drawn half of Paris outdoors, despite the hint of frost still clinging to the air, and Poe gained several disdainful looks from richly dressed ladies as he strode along the Seine in the gathering dark, paper bag tucked under his arm, tie loose, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow. He didn’t really care. He marveled, as he walked, that Bertie had had the foresight to pack food that would not mind getting a bit cold. In fact, the cheese might even taste a bit better for having been carted around in the chilly May evening for a few hours.

As the first stars began to settle in the sky, Poe felt his sense of urgency start to ebb. The clever thing to have done would have been to wait at the hotel until Luke came back and catch him then, but he knew that the restlessness of waiting would have driven him mad. Not that wandering around the streets of Paris looking for an angry German was a great deal better, but at least it kept him moving. On an whim, he decided to retrace his steps back down the bank. Crossing the Place de la Concorde, he meandered into the cool darkness of the Tuileries.

Almost immediately, the noise and bustle of the streets faded. He could hear the soft trickle of water from a fountain somewhere off to his left, and he made toward it. He had given up on finding Luke before the evening was quite over, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy some wine before he made his way home.

He turned off of the Allée Centrale and found himself in a sheltered area overlooking a small burbling fountain, which looked like it had seen better days. The cupid at its crown, somewhat bedraggled, pointed a bent arrow toward the gravel and the long exposure to water had begun to cause bits of green to propagate on the bronze of his face. Several benches were arrayed beneath the arms of the trees, facing the crumbling marble of the fountain’s stand.

Poe approached the closest bench, but paused when he saw that it was already occupied. A shadowed figure sat in its centre, elbows on knees and head in hands, a poignant picture of dejection. Poe drew closer and felt his heart sink as the dappled moonlight played over the figure’s fair hair and vacant right wrist.

The gravel crunched under Poe’s feet as he came to stand beside the bench. After a brief moment’s consideration, he sat down on the ground, shoulders turned to face Luke. Somehow, sitting on the bench would have felt like an intrusion, a violation of the empty space Luke had drawn around himself.

Poe rummaged in the paper bag for a few moments, drawing out the bottle of claret and the two tin cups. Wordlessly, he poured the first cup and placed it on the gravel at Luke’s feet. He left his own glass to air at his side.

“Haben Sie gewusst?” Luke’s voice sounded hollow and alone in the cool darkness. He put the question in an exhausted German, as though English were too heavy, too much for him. Poe’s heart sank as he heard the formal pronouns. It might not have bothered him, but over the past week Luke seemed to have thawed, softened, and his language had slipped into a comfortable, personal place. They had found a closeness that he hadn’t really noticed until now, now that the gulf between them had suddenly become a gaping hole. 

“I-what?” Was all he could force out past the tightness in his throat. Luke raised his head slightly, and the look of hurt and betrayal in his eyes nearly broke Poe’s heart.

“Did you know? When you…that night, at the hotel…Did you know that it was going to be this way?” The answer seemed to matter to him very much.

Poe wanted to tell him everything. How he had spent most of the meetings holding the Colonel’s hat. How he had taken as many smoke breaks on the balcony in the warm Parisian sunshine as he could possibly manage. How he had buried his misgivings about the treaty process under as thick a layer of wine and beautiful things as he could manage. How he had hoped so hard that this treaty would be something bigger, something better than the petty squabbling and infighting that had given birth to it. How much he had dreaded being wrong.

“No.”

Luke seemed to deflate, the tension seeping out of him as he sighed, dropping his head back to his hand. Hesitantly, Poe reached out a hand and laid it gently on Luke’s knee. He half expected the man to pull away, but the contact seemed to smooth away some of the tension in Luke’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Poe said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. Luke let out a slow breath as his hand fell to cover Poe’s.

“I know.” They sat in silence for a long time, listening to the distant chatter and bustle of the city. Poe felt a strange kind of helplessness as he watched Luke’s face in the soft light. He decided to follow Bertie’s example, hoping that doing something, anything, would take that blank look out of Luke’s eyes. He gave Luke’s leg a gentle squeeze and slid his hand away, reaching over to rustle in the paper bag. He nearly laughed when he saw that Bertie had added a small cloth to the top of the bag. He really did think of everything.

“What are you doing?” The hollow edge to Luke’s voice had been replaced by curiosity, and Poe felt a small flush of pride.

“Bertie sent this along with his compliments,” Poe said, laying the food out on the cloth.

“You mean you haven’t eaten yet?”

“You don’t need to worry about me, Herr Skywalker,” Poe said with a soft laugh, “Bertie is as fine a mother as anyone could hope for.” He looked up and saw Luke staring down at him, a small frown creasing his brow.

“You didn’t have to do this.” Poe shrugged and passed Luke the cup of wine that still lay untouched at his feet.

“Well, I mean, I was coming looking for you, so it made sense to bring enough to share.” Luke looked at the wine for a long time before he finally took a sip.

“Thank you for coming,” he said after he had taken the time to roll the wine around, giving the taste his full attention.

Poe didn’t know what to say. He could still see that terrible emptiness, even fear, in Luke’s face, and he felt the shadow of that treaty fall over his heart like a shroud. He wanted more than anything to tell Luke that it would be okay, that he would be there, that this whole mess would turn out alright. But with some deep part of him, he knew that it wasn’t alright.

“It’ll be bad, won’t it?” He spoke quietly, keeping his eyes on the bread and cheese, unwilling, or perhaps unable, to look up and see Luke’s face.

“Yes.” Luke’s whisper carried in the still air. Poe shivered. “Yes, it will.”


	7. 20 June, 1919. Paris, France.

The rain pelted down from the grey sky as it had done all day. The damp streets swam in Poe’s tired vision, slipping and dancing in the flicker of the streetlights. Every muscle in his body ached, and he could feel the same bone-deep weariness that had plagued him since the beginning of the month. He should have taken a taxi home, he knew that, but he had needed the space, needed the life of the streets, and couldn’t care less about getting soaked. Anything to get away from the closeness, the tension, the terrible waiting of the last four weeks.

The treaty had thrown Germany into an uproar. The Count was calling it a diktat, the rest of the delegation calling it a fucking disaster, and all of Germany agreeing that it was an affront to German honour and could not be signed by any man of conscience.

Poe hadn’t understood, not really. He had watched Luke try desperately to work with the delegation and assemble a list of proposed changes. Seen the stress and anxious waiting for word from Berlin etch deep lines in his friend’s face, watched as that same face, usually so fastidiously shaven, had begun to grow a beard, a tangled disarray that marred the man’s usually ordered face. Even today, when Count Brockdorff-Rantzau had stood up from his tiny desk in the hotel and slammed his hand down on the surface, declaring that he could not, would not, sign this treaty, Poe hadn’t understood.

It had only been today, sitting in the silence that grew in the wake of Brockdorff-Rantzau’s departure, seeing the beaten, defeated look on Luke’s face, that he had dared to ask why. A trickle of rain ran down his neck and he shivered, thinking of Luke’s response.

_“Why what?” came Luke’s weary voice. They communicated uniquely in German now. English had become too much, the weight of its tones too heavy a burden for so burdened a mind._

_“I don't…I don’t understand.” Poe’s voice was hesitant to his own ears. He knew, somehow, that it would hurt Luke to hear his question, but he wanted, needed, to know. “You didn’t support Germany joining the war. We spoke so often about how futile and ridiculous it was. I know you hated every minute of it. So why all of this…all of this anger?” He had tried to speak softly, tried to help Luke know that all he wanted was to understand._

_The man’s weary eyes had turned to hold him in their gaze. “This isn’t about the war, Herr Dameron.” Luke’s voice had had the helpless tones of one at the end of hope. “This is about what will happen next.”_

_“Can you not see it?” he had continued, and Poe shivered to hear the tremor of emotion in his voice. “Can you not see that this will utterly break my country? That this will be the end of Germany?”_

_“I don’t-”_

_“These terms, Herr Dameron, are completely impossible. There is no way on God’s earth that we can do what is asked of us here. I know,” he had continued, the intensity growing in his voice, “I know that German soldiers sacked Belgium. I know that. And it was wrong. But did millions of men not also die at Gallipoli at the hands of the Turkish? Did not hundreds -thousands even- of German boys die in agony, their last breaths filling their lungs with gas? Was it not your countrymen, the British, who did this to them? ”_

_Poe had not known what to say. He knew that his silence was agreement enough._

_“And yet it is Germany, Germany alone that must bear the brunt of this cost? We must surrender all that we have worked for, all that we have fought, bled and died for, we must give it to France and to Britain because they are the ones who have suffered?”_

_Luke’s voice had raised near to yelling and, for the first time, Poe felt almost afraid, afraid to see the anger in a face that had always been so kind._

_“You were there, Herr Dameron,” Luke had continued, his voice cutting into Poe like a knife, “you saw our soldiers. You saw them starve, you saw them die. Who are these important men to say that their sacrifice was worth any less, merely because we have lost?”_

Poe felt now the same helplessness he had felt then, the same small, hopeless terror of knowing that the world was careening towards a terrible wrongness, and there was nothing he could do to stop its descent.

He hadn’t known what to say. Hadn’t known how to tell Luke that all he wanted in the whole world was to make things alright. Make the world a safe place for them. Be there to help. He hadn’t been able to apologize, hadn’t been able to respond to the awful truth in Luke’s face. And so he had left, needing the escape, needing the rain, needing the loneliness of this solitary walk across the city.

By the time he dragged his weary body across the threshold of their small apartment, he was soaked through to the skin, water dripping from the corners of his coat, the tips of his hair. Bertie looked up as he entered, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose as he regarded Poe critically over the cover of his Turgenev novel.

“How was your day?” he asked mildly.

“Fucking awful.” Poe peeled his coat away from his slick shirt, draping it over the kitchen chair in the hopes that it might end up drying out somewhat by morning. He collapsed into the chair after the jacket, letting his body melt into the support it provided.

“And Herr Skywalker, is he alright?”

“He hasn’t shaved yet, if that’s what you mean.”

“Ah.”

“It looks horrendous.”

“Well, you don’t look all that peachy yourself.”

Poe sighed, running a hand through his wet hair. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“I was thinking more of the black circles under your eyes and the fact that you’ve lost about ten pounds in the last month, but you’re right, the hair is a fresh new descent for you.” Bertie’s crisp voice snapped Poe out of his mope. He spluttered slightly.

“Ten pounds?” he managed to get out.

“At least that, by my estimation.” Bertie placed the Turgenev on the side table and hauled himself laboriously out of the armchair. He strode purposefully over to Poe and looped one arm under his.

“Come on, get up.”

“I can get up by myself.”

“Yeah, like hell you can. You’ve been wandering out in the rain. Like to give yourself pneumonia, is what you are.” Poe let Bertie half carry him over to his bed. “Sit down.”

Poe obeyed, settling his weight heavily on the bed, letting Bertie extricate him from his soaking shirt. He sat unresisting as he was then attacked with a coarse towel.

“My hair is going to fluff up,” he protested mildly.

“It’ll do it some good,” Bertie responded gruffly. It felt good, Poe reflected, letting someone else make the decisions. Once he was dried, Bertie pulled a chair up to the side of the bed.

“Talk to me,” he ordered.

Poe lowered his head to his hands. “I don’t know what to do,” he said after a moment. “I just don’t know, Bertie. He’s hurting, I can see it. Everything is just so…wrong. Everything is crashing down, and I don’t know how to help him.”

“Have you kissed him again?” Bertie asked, pulling him to his feet and gesturing to his water-logged trousers.

“No,” Poe said hollowly, slowly stripping them off. He hadn’t dared. Something about the desperate hopelessness in Luke had kept him from even touching him, let alone kissing him. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but Poe knew somehow that to reach out for Luke while he was so far away would be to break something between them, and he feared that more than anything.

“Good.” Bertie said, taking the towel to his legs.

“I don’t know why.”

Bertie studied him carefully. “You don’t?”

“No.” There was a long silence. “I just…I just want him,” Poe said, very quietly. “And I want him- I want us- to be alright.”

Bertie put a hand beneath Poe’s chin, raising his head until their eyes met. Poe was surprised by the intensity he saw there.

“I know you do,” he said gently, “I know you want to make it alright, but, Poe…this isn’t something you can make right, certainly not with sex. That will only make it worse, I promise you.”

Poe felt that same helpless feeling welling up inside him, threatening to burst out. “I know,” he whispered, lowering his head to his hands once more. He could feel the tears, the stress, behind his eyes, begging for a release. Then Bertie’s arms were around him, safe, comforting, and he could finally let them go. The tears leaked down his cheeks, mingling with all that was left of the rain. “ I just want to help him,” he whispered into his friend’s shoulder.

“I know you do,” Bertie said softly as he rocked them slowly back and forth. “I know. And I know that you know this isn’t the way.”

Poe nodded, unable to speak. “You’re doing the right thing, Poe,” Bertie said, pulling back and tipping Poe’s face up to look him in the eye. “I know it’s hard. I know it hurts you to watch this. But you’re doing the right thing, and he will thank you for it later.”

“I hope so.”

“He will.” Bertie set the towel aside and pulled the blankets back from Poe’s bed. “Now you need to get yourself some rest. You’re no good to anyone if you catch a chill and die on us.” Poe could feel the curling tendrils of sleep at the corners of his mind, pulling him down into dark waters as Bertie laid him down and tucked the coarse blanket over his shoulders.

“Go to sleep,” he heard his friend murmur as he closed his eyes. “It will look better in the morning.”

Poe let himself drift away, hoping like hell that it would.


	8. July 7th, 1919. Paris, France.

Summer had burst riotously forth in the Parisian streets, and the breeze gently rustling the curtains in Luke's hotel room was sweet with the scent of the flowers in the window box. He was aware, distantly, of the cloying heat in the room, of the moisture that stuck his shirt to his back and made his collar itch. His pen scratched slowly across the sheet of hotel note paper in front of him

_Dearest Leia,_

He paused, the tip of the pen hovering over the page. The morning had gone by in a mad whirl, some kind of horrible waking nightmare that he had hoped belonged to someone else. It was only now, as he tried to put words to his thoughts, that it had suddenly begun to seem very terrible and very real.

_The treaty has been signed._

He took comfort in the passive voice. Vain comfort, but comfort nonetheless. The pen blotted a large drop of ink onto the pristine paper, and he swore softly, cursing his lack of dexterity. It would probably have been simpler to dictate a telegram, faster too, but he needed this. Needed the time it took to add each word painstakingly to the page.

_I am sure that you will have heard the news long before this reaches you, but I felt it was best for you to hear it from me in any case._

He sounded pompous and he knew it, but did not know any way to communicate an embrace through a pen and ink.

_I know that you have put forward many long hours on behalf of Germany, trying to see us to a clear end of this murky path, and I am sure that for you, as for me, this can only taste of bitter defeat._

Bitter did not begin to describe that awful empty feeling, the leaden weight of his hand as it had guided the plumed pen across the parchment of the treaty.

_I find myself unable to communicate the depth of all this may mean for our beloved home, and frustrated beyond belief at the uncomprehending callousness of my companions here. Even Herr Dameron, for whom I have nothing but the highest respect, does not seem to understand the gravity of this defeat._

He stared at the words on the page. 'Highest respect'. He was certain, with a distant part of himself, that those were not the words one used to describe the taste of someone's lips against yours in the soft glow of a Parisian streetlamp, but they were the only words he could find that were not too close, too tender.

_I am sorry that matters have come to this. Give my love to Han and to Ben. I will be boarding the 14:00 train from Paris this afternoon and hope to be safe home with you all very soon._

_All my love,_

_Luke._

It was said. He folded the note crisply in half and slid it into a cream envelope. Awkwardly, still cursing his wrist, he sealed it and slid it into his pocket to leave with the concierge on his way out. Rising from the small desk, he caught sight of himself in the large mirror by the door. He took a moment for a critical appraisal:  pale complexion, sunken eyes, and…well he supposed a poet would call it a 'defeated air'. He sighed, running his hand over his freshly shaved jaw. Many men looked worse at his age but, after the ravages of the past month, he was sure there were many who looked better as well. 

It had been a hard fight, and he knew they had fought it well. The flurry of papers back and forth with the allies, the slight of not being permitted the decency of face to face negotiations, the late nights sitting up, waiting from the latest telegram from Berlin, waiting for something, for anything, for some way clear of the whole desperate mess. And yet, he felt he had always known it would come to this. All of the grand ideas, the big speeches, Wilson's infamous fourteen points…it had all been for nothing. A charade. A thin cloak to hide the reality of a mob of greedy men squabbling in the muck for any bit of sparkle that could be seized from the rubble of his home. 

The worst of it, he reflected as he collected his case from the narrow bed, was that none of them could see it. They all, every one of the delegates, felt that they were in Paris to fight for a great cause. To settle the greatest peace the world had ever known, or something equally inane. Not even Herr Dameron had seen it.

He shivered slightly as he walked down the stairs. Something in him shrank away from the memory of their last conversation. He had heard the harshness in his own voice, had seen the fear and hurt leap into Poe's eyes, but the words had been said and they were true. He couldn't have taken them back, even had he wanted to. But of the many things lost in recent days, the loss of Herr Dameron's company had been the most difficult to bear. Luke had come to rely on him. His patient voice, the calm, steady feel of him in the room when so much was spiraling out of control. His unconditional positive regard. It had hurt, seeing him in the weeks that followed, feeling his caution and his apprehension in every one of the few words they had spoken. The distance still gnawed at him, a dull ache between his shoulder blades that he couldn't shake.

It had been too much to hope that he might see the man again before he left for home, but Luke still felt a pang in his chest as he saw the sea of unfamiliar faces in the hotel lobby. He stepped out of the door, the hot air hitting him like a wall. The rest of the delegation was probably already in a plane on their way to Berlin, but he had wanted time. Time to process, time to mourn, time to put his mind back together before he saw home again. He trailed down the street, letting his eyes slide slowly over his surroundings, attention on the sidewalk, mind wandering. Across the Place de la Concorde. Along the Champs-Elysées. Shoulders jostled his on occasion, but they did not seem to really touch him. Faces, colours, sounds. A wash of noise and haze. He stood finally in front of the Arc de Triomphe, Napoleon's great monument to himself, and, in the mad rush of the streets, felt completely and utterly alone.

"Herr Skywalker! Luke!" Jerked suddenly from his listless contemplation, Luke's head snapped up and he turned to see Poe, only a few feet behind him, face flushed and eyes bright.

"God, I thought you'd gone deaf, I've only been shouting at you for half a block or so,"  Poe panted, pausing to rest his hands on his knees for a moment before looking back up at Luke, a frown on his face, "What the hell was that all about, leaving without saying goodbye to me?"

It was half joking, but Luke could see in Poe's eyes that he was deadly serious. "I-…well, I thought that you were…I mean," Luke faltered, seeing Poe's resolute expression crumble ever so slightly.

"I understand," he said with a tight smile, fighting to hold back…what? Luke didn't know, but he knew it wasn't right.

Poe seemed to hesitate, as though weighing his next words carefully, testing their merit. Then he held out his hand. A slip of paper waved in the breeze.

"Do write to me, won't you, Herr Skywalker?" Poe said quietly. The earnest hope in his voice unraveled something in Luke's heart. Wordlessly, he reached out and took the paper, an address in Montmartre scrawled hastily across the back of a hotel card.

"And, for what it's worth…" Poe hesitated, his eyes slid to the cobbles, then back up to hold Luke fast in their gaze, "I am so very sorry for all of this." He stood quietly for a moment, waiting for a response, a confirmation…something. Luke felt the rush of words in his head, felt them stick in his throat. A sick, helpless feeling crept through him as Poe, a slight flush rising to his already ruddy cheeks, dropped his eyes back to the cobbles and turned, walking back up the street.

Luke wanted to call out to him, wanted to run to him, wanted to hold onto him and never let go.  Instead he stood with a terrible coldness in his bones, watching until Poe was lost in the summer crowds.


	9. July 26th, 1919. Paris, France.

The heat rolled off the pavement in waves so thick Poe could almost taste them. High summer had finally broken over the city, and brought with it the joyous hope for the greatest peace the world had ever known. Never mind that many of the member states at the conference had still refused to sign the bloody treaty. Colonel Groves had sat him down earlier that morning, stared at him for fully five minutes before he said a word. Not that Poe had been counting. 

_"Dameron, you've been a good help here," he said finally, stroking pensively at his dark moustache._

_"Thank you sir." The Colonel frowned. Poe sat very still and wracked his mind for something that he might have done wrong. Pushing out of the treaty reading might have done it, but that was months ago. Sitting up nights with the German division probably wasn't strictly kosher either, but it wasn't as though he'd been doing that recently either…_

_"We're packing up," Groves said brusquely. He sat up straighter in his worn leather desk chair, stolen at the point of a daggered stare from the hotel clerk. "We've signed, they've signed, and it'll take the Yanks months to sort their business out. I want you on my staff back home."_

_"Am I being reassigned, sir?"_

_"Did that sound like an order?" Groves growled, brows knitting even closer together._

_"Yes, sir, it rather did."_

_"Well, it wasn't." Groves' voice was still gruff, but Poe could have sworn he saw a softness come into the older man's face. "It was an offer."_

In the end, Poe had counted slowly to eleven in his head before turning the Colonel down. Groves hadn't asked any questions, merely nodded as though he had expected the answer and told Poe to enjoy his stay. It wasn't until Poe had left the office that he realized that he hadn't told the Colonel that he was going to resign his commission. 

Even now, the scorching heat of the Parisian streets sinking into his bones, he still couldn't say why. The personnel lady he had spoken to had been more than helpful, walking him through the process, flirting outrageously the whole while, but it hadn't kept his attention. He was still rolling the decision over and over in his mind, seeking in vain for a way to explain himself to himself. All that had surfaced was the look of utter hopelessness on Luke's face. Poe didn't figure that counted much in the way of explanations. 

Blessedly, the close crowded streets of Montmartre had begun to cast their long evening shadows, sheltering him from the heat of the sun as he drew close to the apartment. To his surprise, Bertie was seated outside on the street, in one of the rickety contraptions that counted for deck chairs. The gigantic brick he'd been working his way through sat open on his knee (something 'miserables') and he was engaged in conversation with a small, wizened old woman standing on the steps. 

Their landlady, Madame Maz, was so old, Poe was sure she'd seen the French Revolution from both sides. The broomstick she carried -and frequently employed to sweep errant teenagers off of her steps- looked like an extension of her arm as she swept it up, pointing accusingly at Poe. 

"Where have you been, young monsieur?" she demanded, fixing him with her large, luminous eyes. "And what," she looked scandalized as she took in his civilian wear, "has happened to your uniform?" 

"Never mind that young monsieur Brown has been waiting for you for hours!" she continued, before he could even take a breath to respond, "but here you are gallivanting about the city, coming home late to him. Making him worry! After he cooks for you such a lovely dinner!" She glared at him from behind the thickest spectacles Poe had ever seen. 

"Now, you apologize. Go on!" she added, prodding him with the broom when he hesitated, casting Bertie a bewildered look. " _Allez! Faites vos excuses!_ " With a great deal of struggle, Poe composed his face into a look of heartfelt contrition. 

"Bertie, my dear man," he said, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder, "Please accept my deepest apologies for keeping you waiting. It was in intolerable insult." Bertie's shoulders had begun to shake with suppressed laughter. "I can only hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me." The broom prodded him painfully in the back, urging him to greater efforts. "And my sincere thanks for all of the excellent work you do, keeping our house in order and preparing such fine meals." 

Madame Maz snorted in derision, though she looked vaguely mollified. " _C'est bien_ ," she said grudgingly, "Now, go, go upstairs and eat, before all that food will be cold!" she shooed at them with her broom and they moved to obey, Bertie pausing to give the old woman a peck on both cheeks. 

"Bonsoir, madame," he said with a smile, and the old lady grinned in pleasure. Then she glared at Poe. " _Allez, allez, vite!_ " she snapped. 

Once they had reached the safety of the stairwell, they two of them collapsed on the stairs in fits of paroxysmal laughter. Gasping, wiping the tears from his eyes, Poe asked, "Oh my good God, Bertie, is she still convinced?" 

Bertie grinned, his own laughter subsiding as he tucked his book under his arm. "She was only just telling me this morning how a nice young man like myself could find any number of willing ladies, and she couldn't imagine why on earth I saddled myself with such an ungrateful ne'er do well vagabond like you." 

Poe smirked, "Well, it's because I'm so damn beautiful, that's what it is." 

"She seems to think exactly the same," Bertie said with a chuckle.

"And you were cheerfully smearing my good name, I take it?" Bertie held up his hands in a helpless gesture. 

"I swear, all I said was that I had come down to read while I waited for you to get home! I don't have any idea where she got this ridiculous fantasy that you're somehow forcing me to keep house for you while you ignore my affections." 

"Especially," Poe agreed with a grin, "considering that you don't even have affections." Bertie sighed and rolled his eyes as they made their way up the stairs to their flat. 

"Poe, I've told you, having affections doesn't necessarily mean I want to sleep with everyone." he said, unlocking the door. 

"What the hell are affections for, then?" Poe teased. 

"Shut up and open your post," Bertie said good-naturedly, heading for their little stove. 

"Post? What post?" 

"On the table," Bertie said over his shoulder, "it was addressed to you, anyway." 

"Let's eat first," Poe said, busying himself with collecting plates and cutlery. 

"I can manage that, you'll only break the cups again," Bertie said peevishly, swooping the plates out of Poe's hands, "just go and open the damned letter." 

"Fine, fine," Poe muttered, flicking through the pile of papers and envelopes on the table. Bertie had set one aside, a heavy, cream-coloured envelope that looked as though it had cost more than his meals for the last month. He flipped it over, and felt the bottom drop out of the world. 

"M. P. Dameron," the envelope read, in a sharp, precise script. In the top corner, above the return address, was written "Ct. L. Skywalker," followed by more letters than Poe cared to examine too carefully. 

"What?" Poe said in disbelief, sinking into a chair. He felt the excitement rush into his body as he slit the belly of the envelope and pulled out a folded sheet of obscenely expensive note paper. He had be so certain that Luke had left his life for good. Giving his address had felt like a last hope, a wild shot in the dark, and he had never expected a response. Yet, here was this small scrap of paper, filled with Luke's jagged handwriting. He read greedily, drinking the words in, Luke's words, here, written just for him. 

_Herr Dameron,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health, and in a position to enjoy the fine July weather that I understand has blessed France. It occurred to me that you may be interested to know that I arrived safely in Berlin, and from there to my family's estate in the country. The weather here has been unseasonably hot, a temperature that is well-matched to the chaos forming a new Republic. Mercifully, my dear sister handles the family's politics at home, and I find myself free to care for the estate and our family business. Germany is still a tender thing, yet, her wounds still very fresh, and I am more than happy to give over her arduous care to those better suited to the task. In the meantime, there are many other tasks with which am able to occupy my time. Do give my best to Colonel Groves, and to Mr. Brown. And thank you for sharing your address. I look forward to a pleasant correspondence with you._

_Yours very sincerely,_

_L. Skywalker_

Poe let the paper fall to the table, his mind a mad whirl. As far as letters went, it was underwhelming at best, but it was a letter, and he wasn't going to be ungrateful. It was so very characteristic of the Luke to use so many fancy words to say so very little, to wax eloquent about Germany when what Poe really wanted to know about was him. Still, the tone of the letter frightened him more than a little. So formal, so…detached….

"Bertie, I need you to read this." His friend looked up, brows drawn together in concern and the urgency in his tone. 

"Poe, what is it?" 

"It's a letter from Herr Skywalker," Poe said in a rush, "just read it, will you?" 

Agreeably, Bertie took the letter, glancing over it quickly. A wide grin split his face. "He must really like you." 

"Are you sure?" Poe cringed to hear the worry in his voice. Bertie shrugged. 

"Well, no, I'm not in his head. But isn't that generally what nervously affectionate letters look like?" 

"I wouldn't know," Poe said distractedly, "I don't usually write." 

"Sounds like he doesn't either," Bertie quipped, laying the table for dinner. Poe found that he had quite lost his appetite. Now that he had received a letter…

"Oh God, Bertie, I have to write back!" he exclaimed, all thoughts of dinner forgotten. 

"That is usually how it works, or so I understand." 

"But…" Poe floundered, "what do I say?" 

*

**A Week Later, Near Berlin, Germany.**

Luke gazed at his face in the mirror, studying the new lines that the strain of the last few months had left there. He was looking older, but he consoled himself that he wasn't looking nearly as old as Han. Not quite, he thought ruefully, but nearly. He frowned, carefully threading his last button through its hole with his single hand. The task took all his concentration, and he felt, as he always did, a bloom of pleasure at the accomplished task. The medical officers had told him it would get easier, and they had mostly been right, but the year since the crash had been a long adventure of discovering new and less efficient ways of doing things that had once been easy. There was a part of him that wanted to resent the difficulty, but there had been so much loss in the last few years that he found he lacked the energy for genuine long-term resentment. The best he managed was the occasional melancholy sulk, and even those did not bring much satisfaction. 

There was a knock at the door, and Herr Ripiau's fussy, precise voice came floating through the heavy oak. "Shall I set out your breakfast, Master Luke?" 

"Please do," Luke called, shrugging on his jacket, "I'll be right down." 

The long, panelled halls of Skywalker Manor were silent as he made his way down to breakfast. Leia was away, called to Berlin for what would undoubtedly be another urgent yet ultimately useless political consultation. She did love those intricate dances and subtle games, and Luke was happy to let her manage them. With his wife out of the house, Han would almost certainly sleep as late as his body would let him; if he woke before midday, it would be a miracle. With Ben still away at school, Luke was pleasantly surprised to remember that he had the house to himself. 

Early mornings had ever been one of his greatest pleasures, when the sun streamed through the summer mist that was still rising from the valley to coat the rolling hills of the estate in a gentle white. It had been a time he had once shared with Ben, and he found himself missing his nephew's presence more than usual as he entered the empty dining room. The large space seemed emptier than usual, and his lone place at the table looked somewhat forlorn. Herr Ripiau had left the post beside his plate, and Luke flicked idly through it as he ate, his eyes running over the many envelopes addressed to his sister. 

Leia always liked to tell him that, while it may have been the business side of their father's massive estate that had built the family fortunes up in the first place, it was their political connections that ensured their social standing for the future, garnering them precious business connections that would keep Skywalker enamelware on the tables of the people. He had been more than content to let her shoulder the title of Countess, and with it the responsibility for that particular aspect of their lives, and she had been elated to take it on. 

She was better suited to the task, in any case, Luke reflected as he sorted Leia's massive pile of mail and laid it on the table beside her usual place. He had never understood the allure of politics. If he wanted to spend his days in a room with liars, cutthroats, and thieves, he could take his leisure in any one of a dozen establishments in Berlin that provided infinitely more entertaining company and far superior food than did the Reichstag. 

There was little enough mail for Han and none for Ben, so Luke carried his perusal on to his own modest pile. There were two letters from Berlin, almost surely requesting his presence at some ghastly gala or other, and he laid them aside. The third was from Liesl, and the last, addressed to him in a cramped but legible script, was from an address in Paris, and marked P.D. 

He laid the fourth letter aside, studiously ignoring the giddy excitement that had flooded his body at the recognition of the letter. Opting for safer ground, he began to tackle his egg and toast. The letter could wait a while longer. 

It sat on the table, burning into his mind as he ate. Frightened at the depth of his own anticipation, Luke left the breakfast table, taking the other three letter with him to the terrace. Seated in the fine morning sunshine, he read slowly and carefully over the two letters from Berlin. One, from the Gestdorffs, was indeed an invitation to a summer gala. The other, to his surprise, was from Professor Kalrissian, requesting his application for a sectional lecturing position in German and English Literature of the early 18th century. This he read with interest, allowing it to encompass the whole of his attention for several blessedly long moments. Lando must have been in desperate straits indeed, Luke reflected, if he was forced to scrape the bottom of his barrel of acquaintances so completely as to reach him. He would submit his application, he decided, sucking leisurely at the pipe he had lit for the morning. It would be a welcome distraction. 

The letter from Liesl was more of a hurdle, and he had deliberately left it to last, suspecting its contents. She seldom wrote, and when she did it was usually painful, but he slit the envelope open with his penknife, and unfolded the rich lavender paper within. It was, predictably, filled from edge to edge with Liesl's elegant, flowing handwriting, and described each of her latest adventures in excruciating detail. And, as always, it ended with a fervent plea that he would either find himself a sensible wife, return to her silk-draped bed, or at the very least have the decency to retire into eccentric bachelorhood and cease causing her such accute public embarrassment, and closed with an invitation to visit her in Munich, which they both knew he would not accept. He laid the scented paper aside with a deep sigh. He liked Liesl, he really did, but he found her random incursions into his life increasingly difficult to bear.

Collecting the letters from the arm of his chair, Luke made his way slowly indoors again. To his mingled relief and disappointment, Herr Ripiau had cleared the breakfast table, taking the post to the bedroom of each recipient. He noted the sudden tension in his chest at the thought of the unread letter, and sternly reminded himself that he had plenty of things to be getting on with, and the post could wait until the evening, as it always did when he had work to do. 

For the remainder of the day, Luke addressed himself with what he viewed as singular care and attention to the alarming stack of papers, bills, and professional correspondence that had collected in his study during his stay in Paris. He plunged headlong into problems of shipping, warehouse management, and production details, and the letter faded to the back of his mind for several hours. 

It was quite late- well past dinner, he guessed- when a knock at the study door broke his spell of concentration. He looked up, an annoyed dismissal on his lips, which died as he saw the tall, lanky figure waiting nervously in his doorway. 

"Herr Ripiau said I would find you here, Onkel," Ben said. Luke beamed at his nephew, leaving the desk as rising to greet Ben with an enthusiastic embrace. 

"How are you keeping, my dear boy?" he inquired warmly. Ben smiled and shrugged. 

"Keeping up with my studies, mostly," he said, taking his customary seat in the corner of the study. "I have been learning a great deal, and my head is nearly full to the brim with poetry." He spoke the last word with undisguised distaste, and Luke wisely left the subject alone 

"When did you arrive home?" he asked instead. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when he and Ben could have spoken about poetry for hours, or history, or even politics, but that time seemed to have passed. Luke struggled to explain to himself why exactly he had found himself becoming more hesitant with the boy, but he supposed that the war and the long time away had pulled them apart. 

They spoke instead of physics, trains, evening adventures and, increasingly, of women. Well, girls, more appropriately, as Ben had only just passed his fourteenth birthday, but the sudden growth in years had opened up a somewhat alarming pit of questions and observations that Han did not seem willing -or able- to address. And so they talked of other things, and Luke tried not to resent the Gymnasium for its teaching. 

"Oh, I had forgotten, Onkel," Ben said suddenly, after he had finished telling Luke about the latest work in the study of light's movement in space, "Herr Ripiau also gave me this for you, he said you forgot it on the table at breakfast this morning. 

Luke's heart leapt at the sight of the plain brown envelope in his nephew's hand. "Yes, thank you," he spoke slowly, carefully, striving to keep the energetic excitement from his voice as he took the letter. 

"I brought my book, if you want to read it," Ben offered, resuming his seat in the armchair and opening a large volume. 

"Mm," Luke acknowledged absently, his attention already on the smooth paper in his hands. He resisted the urge to tear the envelope, reaching instead for the ornate pewter letter knife that had been a gift from Han. Making a precise incision along the top fold of the envelope, he drew out two sheets of folded notepaper. He unfolded them, noting the salutation with delight: 

_Dear Luke,_

The warmth of Poe's casual tone seemed to fill his ears as he read. 

_I am so glad to hear that you made it back to Berlin safely. I have been following politics in the French press, but they are damnably suspect, and I am anxious to hear anything that you can tell me. Paris is still a lively place to be, and I have been keeping myself as busy as I can. I don't have much news to share about the good Colonel, as he has returned to England without me. I'm sure it's been a challenge for him to find someone else to carry his hat at all of his meetings, but I'm equally sure that he'll manage it alright. Bertie is well, and has managed to charm our downstairs neighbour, Madame Maz, into believing that he is an upstanding citizen, which is a dubious claim at best, but it has given us a reduced rent, so it cannot be all bad. How is the economy in Germany? How has your family's business been managing? You must tell me everything, as I know next to nothing about enamel work (that is your trade, am I right?) and would be glad to learn._

_It has been difficult for me to find a trade here, as all the planes belong to the French army (which I am less than keen to join), and I must say that I don't really much care for the office I'm in now. The secretary, Ms. Pava, is a delightfully clever lady, but the rest of the crew are decidedly a bunch of gits, and the work is boring enough to rot the strongest of minds. I'm hoping to change positions as soon as I can find a field that is better suited to me._

_Do you travel for your business interest? If so, you must look me up if you are ever in Paris! Until then, keep well, and do give my best to your family._

_-Poe_

Luke read and reread the small folded sheets, drawing every ounce of Poe's evident excitement and affection from the pages, trying to fill the small empty space that had grown in his heart since that awful evening in Paris. He could hardly believe the chance that Poe was offering to him, that he was willing to carry on as friends as though nothing had ever come between them. He read the salutation again and again, feeling the gratitude well up inside him. Not Herr Oberst. Not Herr Skywalker. Luke. 

He pulled a few sheets of notepaper from the top drawer of the desk and, completely unaware that Ben had fallen asleep in his book, he cleared a space amongst the mountains of paper, wet his fountain pen, and began to write. 

_Dear Poe…_


	10. October 5th, 1919.

**Paris, France.**  
The noise in the bar crashed onto Poe’s ears in cacophonous waves, pressing into his mind and driving out the ghosts, at least for a little while. They seemed to occupy his thoughts more than they ever had and he wondered, briefly, if the long days of autumn had brought them back. He had dreamed in his trench, of course, they all had. Even Bertie had woken screaming in the night, only calming when Poe placed a bayonet in his hand and sat beside his bed, the lantern light deepening the shadows under their eyes. He had expected the terrors to fade when the war was over and they had, for a time. He gave the scarred and pitted wood of the bar a rueful grin. The endless worry about the treaty-about Herr Skywalker-had taken up all the space his thoughts had to give in those few awful months, but now the nightmares were back, and not even his endless hours at the steel mill could keep them at bay. He tumbled into his bed exhausted and slept poorly, chased in his dreams by pale, insubstantial figures that spoke with the voice of machine gun fire and took the shapes of faces long dead. He had heard somewhere that it was impossible to dream a face you had never seen, and he shivered, wondering where his mind had pulled the hollow-eyed figures that stalked him through the French mud every night.

The whiskey burned in his throat, easing the chill that had crept into his shoulders. He had shunned the Jolie Rose, opting instead for a soldier’s bar on the outskirts of the red light district. The whiskey was cheaper, the music racier, and the company more sparse. Best of all, what company there was was inclined to violent outbursts over the barest whiff of an insult. Fights were common, injuries even more so, and every regular in the place was just as keen as he was to break bones and skin to escape the demons on their heels. A conversation with rich potential was brewing to his left, where a grizzled old man sat nursing a pint of awful beer. Everything about him screamed navy, and he was bearing the endless chatter of the three young pilots beside him with the patience of ages. The boys looked like Poe felt, lost in the aftermath of the war and knowing that raining death from the skies was the only thing that made them feel really alive. They were new at the bar, and Poe guessed by their manner that they traveled around fairly often. The blonde fellow doing the most of the talking didn’t have the kind of personality that lets a person be a regular anywhere for very long. The old navy dog just sat there and took it while the pilots waxed on and on about the war, pushing, and pushing. It couldn’t last, Poe knew, and as he reached this conclusion, the blonde kid said the unforgivable. 

“Well, I heard the crew on the _Gallia_ were spotting for the Jerries anyway. Probably manned the signal light, didn’t you?” 

Silence fell instantly. The old man took a sip of his beer and set it gently on the bar. Such care, Poe thought distantly, for a man about to start breaking things. “You want to say that again, monsieur?” The sailor's cracked voice was low and far too polite to be safe, “So everyone can hear you?” 

“You heard what I said,” the pilot sneered. “I've seen your kind before," he continued, displaying no value whatever for his bone structure, "You’re probably one of those dirty swabs who could ride a torpedo from here to Calcutta.” 

The old man stood. “At least I have a torpedo,” he said flatly, and caught the kid a square hit on the jaw. The darkened room was mostly chaos after that. The pilot contingency put up a fairly decent showing for their fallen comrade, but soon the table of navy regulars in the corner had emptied, coming to the aid of the old man and, within moments, the whole bar was involved in something or other. 

Poe caught a wicked upper cut on his jaw that sent him reeling away from the bar, stumbling into the unsympathetic arms of an burly man with a beard that looked like it was ready to grow a life of its own somewhere away from his face. He growled wordlessly, shoving Poe away and following up with a wide, sweeping roundhouse, which he dodged easily. Now that his head had stopped ringing a bit, he could feel his blood singing with the joy of the fight, the heady rush of adrenaline that drove away the dark and sharpened the world into a narrow space of blood, flesh, and bone. As he sank a fist into the burly man’s ribs, a part of him protested that this wasn’t what might be called a respectable way to spend his evening, but he was long past caring, throwing himself into the fight with reckless abandon. 

*

Something cold tickled his face. Blackness began to let him go slowly, with regret. He groaned as feeling came back to various pieces of his body and they began to scream at him, reminding him that whatever he had been drinking last night had probably been an awful idea. 

“E-excusez-moi, monsieur,” said a small voice somewhere above him, “Are you alright?” Poe blinked muzzily, raising a protesting arm to shade his eyes from the bright point of light above him. 

“Whatssit?”he mumbled, tongue swollen and heavy in his mouth. 

“Papa!” He registered a lace petticoat and small leather shoes which scurried away as he attempted to sit up. He was nearly successful, but his head began to spin sickeningly, so he decided it was probably best to just leave it resting on the rough wood below him and let the waves of nausea wash over him. 

Where was he? What the hell had happened last night? He could remember fragments; they exploded behind his eyes in horrible bursts of colour. The bottle smashing on his head. Several pints of...something with the navy lads. Rain? Possibly? He couldn’t tell. It might have been sweat that had made his hair stick to his scalp like that. Waving away the offer of a hand home. Stupid. He obviously hadn’t made it.

He started as he heard a new voice approaching him from what seemed like a long way off. 

“Oui, Madeleine, I heard you.” 

“But Papa, he fell out of the cabbages!” Oh. Cabbage. That was the cool tickly thing resting against his hand. 

 

"Oui, Madeleine."

A shadow blocked out the searing light above him. Poe was grateful for the respite and inclined to say so, but his face was very heavy. In fact, now that it had come to his attention, his lips felt cracked and almost certainly swollen. More and more of the night before was coming back to him. Oh yes, it had been chalked full of terrible choices. It had probably been the fist connecting with his jaw that made his neck and face feel like they were made of wood instead of flesh.

"'M sorry about your cabbages, monsieur," he murmured, trying to lift at least half of his face off of what he now realized was a floor.

"They've seen worse, I'm quite sure," Someone knelt down beside him. Strong hands helped pull him up onto his hands and knees, "Though I'm less sure about you. Frankly, it looks as though you may have seen better days."

"And worse," Poe assured him, though he was less and less sure of that as feeling came back to more of his body. Knees were alright. He didn't think he was ready for feet yet, but the hands switched to grab him under the arms and pull him to his feet with surprising ease.

"You'll have to tell me of it sometime," There was a soft grunt from beside him as his arm was looped over a pair of bony shoulders, "but for now, monsieur, I expect you need some care and a place to sleep that is softer than my cabbage bin."

Poe was about to protest that if this person could just get him back to the apartment, he had a perfectly serviceable bed, but his rescuer led him out into bright early morning sun and it was all he could manage to stay mostly upright as his head pounded under the onslaught. Mercifully, the walk in the sun was not a long one and he soon found himself under the comforting shade of a roof. The smell of frying bacon wafted through the air and Poe could hear the chatter of several female voices as he was led to a back stairway.

"Long night, was it, monsieur?" asked his host. 

Poe nodded. "Longest I've had in a long time," he admitted as they reached the top of the stairs. New tender places were opening up on his body the more he moved it and he was beginning to fear that he had seriously injured himself in that fight last night. It had gone on longer than usual, but he couldn't remember anything more serious than a couple of hits to the ribs. Nothing that would warrant him feeling like he had been trampled by the entire French cavalry. Twice. He wasn't sure he would have made it home. Actually, come to think of it, he wasn't even sure he knew where home was from here.

"Then some rest will do you good," the man said firmly as he opened the door to a sparsely furnished bedroom. The sheets were a clean crisp white and possibly the best thing Poe had seen in the last week. The bed was soft and he sighed in appreciation as the old man helped him into it. "Sleep," the man said, though the order was completely unnecessary. He was asleep before his head hit the lace edged pillowcase. 

Poe woke thick tongued and sore some hours later, after sunset by the low light that greeted him when he chanced opening his eyes. The bed creaked beneath him as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. His head had stopped spinning and the pain in his face had faded to a dull ache. 

"Pardon me for saying so, monsieur," said a voice from his right, "but you look thoroughly dreadful. 

Poe sat up, looking toward the dim outline of a figure seated on a three-legged stool by the door. There was a suggestion of a beard and his fogged memory provided a picture of sharp blue eyes. "There is water on the table beside you, if you want it." 

"I do, thank you," Poe croaked. His lip was still tender and the water stung the cracked flesh, but it was cool on his throat. He gulped at it, unaccountably thirsty, and coughed as his abused body rejected his overzealous attempt to make amends. 

"Slowly does it," chuckled the voice in the corner. It was a smooth voice and cultured, with the barest hint of an accent Poe didn't recognize. "You've had a difficult day." 

"Yeah," Poe agreed, eyes watering. He set the water down, studying the man on the stool. Now that he was no longer thinking through a fog of drink and pain, he had questions. "I don't wish to seem ungrateful, monsieur,” he began, “but why am I here? And where is here, exactly?” 

“I am told that in the great and infinite space of our universe, there is a reason for our mortal existence,” the man said, sounding amused, “but in regards to your immediate situation, I am Monsieur Kenobi and you are sitting in my guest bed, in large part due to your own good fortune that my granddaughter found you out in my cabbage bin. You look as though you’ve been in a fight. A losing one, I might add.” 

“Yes,” Poe’s mind raced to keep up with the man’s reasoning. It was difficult, considering the many gaps in his memory of the past forty-eight hours. “That doesn’t bother you?” 

Monsieur Kenobi laughed, a rich, genuine sound, “My dear boy, why would that bother me?” 

Poe flushed, “I don’t think I gave you an entirely respectable first impression.” He thought back to his blurred trip up the stairs, the chatter of female voices. “And this seems a respectable house. I…” he hesitated, “well, in your shoes, sir, I would have called the gendarmes and left it at that.” 

“Tell me, Monsieur...” 

“Dameron,” Poe supplied, “Poe Dameron.” 

“Are you familiar with the teachings of Christ, Monsieur Dameron? With his life as it has been told to us?” 

“Vaguely,” Poe allowed, thinking of his mother’s secret piety and his father’s steadfast atheism. Sunday school had not been a part of his childhood.   
“Well, suffice to say that he did not spend much of his time with respectable citizens.” There was a rustling sound as Monsieur Kenobi shifted on his stool. “You were in need. I have been called to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. It was not a matter of respectability.” 

“I...see.” 

“You think me mad, no doubt.” Poe could hear the smile in the man’s voice and wondered how obvious his disbelief had been. “Let me put it a different way, monsieur. If you wanted to do me or my granddaughters harm, run off with our possessions, say, how well do you think you would manage?” 

“Poorly.” 

“At best,” the man said bluntly. “I appreciate your concern on my behalf, monsieur, but you look about able to tackle a bowl of cereal. Regardless of my reasons, you are in no place to do me harm. If it gives you any comfort,” he added kindly, “your second impression has been more than respectable.” 

“I…” Poe felt overwhelmed by this stranger’s kindness and found himself unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He wanted to protest that he was the last person to be deserving of such charity, that in fact what he deserved for his recent conduct was a firm dressing down and probably a slap to round things out. It hadn’t been a rough night so much as a rough several months and he felt a prickling of shame at how far he had slipped. “Thank you, monsieur,” he said at last. “I’m not sure what you see that is worthy of respect and I don’t know how I can repay you, but thank you in any case.” 

“I have no need of repayment,” Monsieur Kenobi said, raising himself slowly to his feet, “though if you are feeling well in the morning, I am quite sure that an extra pair of hands would not go amiss.” He paused at the door, as though he had forgotten something in the room. “Do you have anyone waiting for you at home, Monsieur Dameron?” he asked. 

Poe felt a cold wash of guilt as he thought of Bertie worrying, wondering where he was. “Yes. Mr. Brown. May I give you his address.” 

“Certainly.” The main listened patiently and repeated the numbers back to him. “I will see that he knows you are safe and relatively well.” 

“Again, thank you, monsieur.” 

“It is no trouble at all,” Monsieur Kenobi assured him. “Now rest. I will wake you for breakfast.” 

Poe stared up at the dark ceiling for a long time, listening to the quiet sounds of life in the house around him. When he finally drifted into sleep, he did not dream. 

**Outside Berlin, Germany.**

"You did what?" Luke looked up from the evening paper at the sound of his sister's raised voice floating down the hall. He heard a corresponding sniff from across the room and looked over the edge of the paper. A small girl sat as close to the edge of the sofa as she could without falling right off of it, arms wrapped tight about her body. He might have described her as pitiful, hunched in the rich room with her ragged clothing, hair drawn back into matted buns, shrinking from the sound of Leia's ire, if it hadn't been for the look of pure venom she shot him the moment she noticed his eyes upon her.

They had been sitting in the hall for nearly twenty minutes in stubborn silence since Han had returned from his orphanage tour. He had ushered the little one into the house like an errant schoolchild, giving Luke an embarrassed shrug. “I couldn’t leave her there, Luke.” Luke had rustled his newspaper and said nothing. The girl had hidden behind Han’s back, glaring suspiciously at everyone and everything. “I just couldn’t.” 

“I understand,” Luke had said. And he did. The poor girl looked like a skeleton, the bones of her face standing out stark and terrible under the ground in grime that covered her face. Her long hair hung in lanky strings from the structurally compromised buns and her eyes had the wide, blank look of the perpetually hopeless and very hungry. The question in Luke’s mind wasn’t why Han had brought an orphan home; it was why he had only brought one. Leia, of course, had had a very different reaction. He was fairly certain it was mostly the regular shock that resulted from her unstoppable force once again meeting Han’s moveable conscience. It bit him at odd times, and Luke suspected there was a part of Leia that rebelled at the change in plans more than anything else. 

"Don't let it bother you," he said quietly, gesturing toward the stairs.

"It doesn't." The little chin lifted defiantly and Luke struggled to keep the smile from his face.

"Of course." He rose from his chair, taking good note of the way the girl's arms dropped immediately to her side, every muscle tensed as she watched him walk to the sidecart. "Would you care for a drink of water?"

She eyed him suspiciously as he poured a glass for himself. He waited expectantly, holding the pitcher over a cup until she nodded once, the buns bouncing on her head. The trickle of the water into the crystal glass echoed in the silence. "May I join you on the sofa?" Luke asked as he returned, careful to hold the glass out where she could see his hand. She glared stubbornly up at him for a long moment before sliding over the barest inch. "Thank you." He passed her the glass of water and she took it with exaggerated care, sipping at the water as though she was afraid it wasn't quite real. He collected his own cup and perched carefully beside her. 

"What's your name, child?"

"Rey." Her voice was so quiet he could hardly hear her.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Rey. My name is Luke." Rey said nothing, but she tucked her knees up to her chest, scooting the barest inch further into the comfort of the sofa as she clutched the glass of water tight in her bony fingers, as though she didn’t trust the luxurious fabric. They sat quiet, listening to the growing unrest from the floor above as Han's voice rose to contend with Leia's.

"Do you live here?" Rey's eyes were wide as she looked around the sitting room.

"Yes."

"In this whole room?" Something tightened in Luke's throat.

"Well...yes, sort of."

“And you don’t share it with anyone at all?” She demanded, her tight look of suspicion melting into one of frank disbelief. 

“I...not really…”

He was spared the need to elaborate as Han came down the stairs wearing the rueful smile he reserved for arguments with his wife.

"Welcome home," Luke said, raising the crystal glass in salute, "Did you enjoy the festivities?" Han pulled a face.

"It was mostly awful."

"Shocking."

Han knelt in front of the sofa "So, liebchen," he put a hand on Rey's shoulder, "Do you still want to stay?" Rey was quiet, studying the room carefully.

"Will I have to sleep in here?"

"I'm sure we can find you your own space," Luke said as Han’s mouth fell open at the question. 

The wide eyes held him under long, serious scrutiny. “Will there be things to fix?” 

“If you want them, then yes, I think we can manage that as well.” Her study surprised him, in large part because he found himself hoping that he wasn’t found somehow wanting. 

“Do you have a switch?” Luke forced his face to remain calm, gripping the water glass tightly.   
“There hasn’t been a switching in this house for thirty years,” he said quietly, “nor will there ever be.” 

“Alright then.” Rey sank back further into the sofa, as though she could make herself disappear. Then she stuck out one filthy hand toward Han. Han’s eyes flicked back and forth between the girl and Luke’s set face, searching for something, possibly direction. 

“Alright,” he said finally, taking her hand and shaking it gently. 

“But I want a blanket,” she added in a rush as she snatched her hand back. 

“Um…” Han floundered, at a loss. 

“You’d better find her a place to sleep and some decent clothes!” Leia’s shout echoed down the long staircase. 

“What do you think I’m doing?” Han returned, spinning to make a face at the stairs. 

“And a bath!” 

Han growled in frustration and, seeing the direction the conversation was headed, Luke set his glass on the side table and held out a hand to Rey. “Why don’t you and I go find you a blanket?” 

She gave him one more long look, from the tips of his polished shoes to the top of his head. Then she nodded, getting up to follow him across the hall. She didn’t take his hand. 

* 

The next morning, Luke’s breakfast was interrupted by a bloodcurdling shriek that shook the house. It was followed moments later by Herr Ripiau, cheeks flushed and tie askew. “Oh, Master Luke,” the butler cried, “You must come at once, the young fraulein is tearing the bathroom to pieces!” 

Leaving his boiled eggs to cool, Luke followed the butler up the stairs to the guest bathroom. A flung towel greeted him as he opened the door, followed closely by a soap dish that smashed on the wall beside his head. Frau Gaarten, the housekeeper, cowered behind the linen closet and, in the middle of the soaking wet floor stood Rey, a scrubbing brush held in her upraised hand, her eye wild. Upon seeing him, the scrubbing brush wavered uncertainly, then began to lower. “You promised,” she spat, “You promised they wouldn’t hurt me.” 

“Yes, I did,” Luke replied calmly, noticing the bent comb protruding from the child’s hair. “That rule applies to everyone in this house. We do not throw things here,” he added, pulling the towel from his shoulder as he entered the room. 

Rey shot a contemptuous look at Frau Gaarten. “I didn’t hurt her,” she said, voice dripping with scorn. 

“Did you throw something at her?” Luke asked, righting a stool and perching on it. The scrubbing brush wobbled. 

“Yes.” 

“We do not throw things here,” Luke repeated, “And when we make mistakes, we apologize.” 

Rey’s shoulders tightened and she glared at the housekeeper. “You can say ‘I’m sorry I threw something at you, Frau Gaarten’,” Luke supplied. 

“I’m...sorry I threw the stool at you.” The words came out in a jerky rush and were certainly not heartfelt, but Luke decided to count it as progress. He raised his eyebrows pointedly at the housekeeper. 

“Apology...accepted,” she said, still wary. 

“I expect Herr Ripiau could do with some assistance at the breakfast table, Frau Gaarten,” Luke told her gently. 

“Of course, Master Luke.” She curtsied and fairly ran from the room, no doubt grateful for the escape. 

With the immediate threat removed, the scrubbing brush fell to the floor and Rey began to tremble, tears gathering in her eyes. “Are you going to send me away?” she whispered. 

“No.” Luke struggled to keep the hitch from his voice as she began to cry, shoulders shaking with the effort of holding in her tears. “No, I’m not going to send you anywhere.” Tantrums he knew how to handle - he had grown up with Leia, after all- but he felt completely helpless in the face of Rey’s obvious distress. 

“Would it...would you like a hug?” he asked over her sobs. Arms wrapped tight around her shoulders, she stepped forward, crumpling into his chest. He held her gingerly while she cried, wondering how on earth he was going to talk himself out of this. Gradually, the sobs became hiccoughs, which became sniffs. 

“It hurts,” she said at last, voice muffled by his damp shirt. The tail of the comb prodded him in the shoulder as she looked up at him. 

“The comb?” She nodded. 

“May I try?” he asked, “ If I promise to be very careful?” She studied him for a long while before nodding again. 

“Sit here.” He pulled up a second stool and patted the worn seat. “If it hurts,” he added, studying the hopeless mess of tangles on her head, “you just touch my knee, right here,” he tapped his leg, “and I’ll stop. Alright?” The whole matted mass shook as she nodded. 

It was painfully slow. The poor child’s hair looked as though it hadn’t been combed since she came into the world, and he only had one hand, but he also had soapy water and a good deal of patience. He should probably have cut it off and saved them both the struggle, but after what seemed like several hours of delicate work and constant breaks, Rey’s hair hung wet and straight down her back. His neck and shoulder screamed at him, unused to such effort, but he smiled as she turned to face him. “Thank you for sitting so patiently,” he told her, “that took a long time and I know it was hard for you.” 

“Was it hard for you?” she asked, frowning up at him. 

“A little,” he admitted, feeling the sweat trickle down his back. She nodded to herself, looking down at her dirty feet. 

“Now,” he said, wincing as he stood from the stool, “do you think that if I ask Frau Gaarten to come back that you can get through a bath?” 

“Will it hurt?” 

“I don’t think so,” Luke said, “but if it does, you can tap her on the hand and I promise that she will stop and let you take breaks. Will that be alright?” Her face was solemn as she considered his question. 

“Where will you be?” 

“I,” Luke replied, rolling some of the stiffness out of his shoulder, “will be sitting in that chair right there,” he pointed to the armchair that stood by the banister in the hall, “reading my paper.” 

At last, she gave a sharp nod. “I think I can try.”


	11. January 1919, Paris France.

Winter had fallen on Paris in a rush, sweeping the city into a dizzying flurry of white just in time for Christmas. Walking down the quiet evening streets, Poe couldn’t remember the last time he had see so much snow, nor the last time that Christmas had been a real celebration, not just a few squares of chocolate shared between friends. This year had been different, its last days bringing a warmth and welcome he hadn’t felt since long before the war. Turning down a narrow street, he once again found himself thankful that Monsieur Kenobi had been looking for extra help in his green grocer’s business. 

“Do you have a profession, Monsieur Dameron?” Monsieur Kenobi asked over his wine. Poe loved the way the old man said his name, his French tongue caressing the syllables with such care that Poe had never bothered to correct him to the English pronunciation. 

“No, sir. I’m...between jobs at the moment.” 

“Papa, can he stay here?” Madeleine blurted around her soup. All three of the dark-haired girls looked expectantly up at their grandfather. 

“It would be easier, Papa,” the eldest, Colette said quietly, trying to hide her smile. “We already know that he would fit well.” 

“Do we, now?” Monsieur Kenobi’s eyebrows shot up and he nodded to Poe. “My goodness, monsieur, you must be a magician!” 

“I beg your pardon?” Poe asked, trying desperately to keep up with the conversation. 

“We have had a vacant position in the shop for weeks,” Monsieur Kenobi explained, lighting himself a cigar, “and my charming granddaughters have refused to work with any of the applicants. I don’t know what you’ve done,” he added, eyes twinkling, “but I must say I am impressed. 

It was hard work, plenty of lifting and carrying, but it was good work and he enjoyed it immensely. To his surprise, Bertie had only smiled when he had heard the news, commenting on how much business was shared between Épicerie Kenobi and the flower shop where he spent his days. He wasn’t quite sure how it had happened, but he hand Bertie had become regular Sunday dinner guests in the Kenobi home. It had been the easiest thing to fall into a routine, banter with Colette, who had dreams of becoming a seamstress, playing at soldiers and princesses with Madeleine and Marie. Marie had hardly spoken for the first three weeks he had known her, though she had opened up considerably following Poe’s dramatic reenactment of Le Chat Botté which had had all three girls in stitches by the time he finished. It was...comfortable and after nearly three months of telling himself he needed more time, he turned down the broad avenue that led past the Jolie Rose.   
He couldn’t really explain to himself why he had waited so long to come back, he only knew that the thought of the place, of friends, of apologies, made something in him shrink back into safety. Of course, in the way of all difficult tasks, the longer he left the conversation to the side, the more embarrassed he became over his long absence and the more he avoided it altogether. It had been a conversation with Monsieur Kenobi that had finally driven him out into the snow after his shift had ended. What was right, his employer was fond of saying, was seldom what was easy. What they had been discussing at the time, Poe couldn’t even remember, but the old man had looked at him with those bright blue eyes, puffing away at his pipe, and Poe had felt the old guilt shrink inside him, along with the realization that he was never going to be ready. The waiting was only a lie he told himself to soothe his conscience and it did not even do the job particularly well. 

Which is how he found himself bringing the frost in the front door of the Jolie Rose. He waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom before approaching the bar, but was stopped in his tracks by the wet slap of a bar rag across his cheek. It stung, and so did the angry stream of french that followed it. 

“You complete and utter waste of English skin!” Mariette cried, hitting him with the rag again, leaving a stream of unidentified liquid to seep down his arm. “Just disappear without a word! Not even a letter? I thought you were DEAD, _cochon_! I should skin you alive for how much worry you’ve brought me!” Then her arms were tight about his waist, her face buried in his chest. “Don’t ever do that again, you bastard.” 

“I’m sorry, Mariette,” he said, gingerly putting his arms around her. 

“You should be.” 

“I know.” 

“Good.” She pushed back, frowning up at him. “Now, you owe me a drink and an explanation.” 

“Of course.”

They sat at the old corner table and he told her all that he could. It was not easy, but Mariette had always listened well, and when he concluded, face flushed, she set down her vodka and put a hand over his. She didn’t ask why he hadn’t come to her, didn’t tell him he had been ridiculous, didn’t offer pity or rebuke. “I’m glad you told me,” was all she said, “And it is so very good to see you.” Poe nodded. 

“And I am sorry.” She nodded, then a smile brightened her dark eyes. 

“Only promise me if you need three months to brood again that you send me a note, huh _cher_?” They laughed, dispelling the tension that had built while he spoke. Poe looked down at Mariette’s hand, then held it up, letting the simple band of gold on her hand sparkle in the low light. 

“It looks like you have news for me.” 

She shrugged and, for the first time in their acquaintance, Poe saw her blush. “I was lonely,” she said, “and Nikki does a good job of braiding my hair.” 

“Well, I’m glad you’ve found a _coiffeur_ ,” Poe teased. 

“They’re hard to find these days.” She studied him for a moment, head tilted to the side, “and you? What about your German diplomat?”

“He’s hardly my diplomat,” Poe protested, “just a friend.” 

“Right, of course.” 

“Don’t look at me like that, I’m serious.” She didn’t disagree, only raised an elegant eyebrow. 

“So do you write this friend?” she asked. Poe thought guiltily of the stack of letters on the kitchen table in the apartment. 

“Sort of.” 

“Ah. So this German diplomat is not yours, only a friend that you ‘sort of’ write.” She summarized. 

“Yes,” Poe shook his head, “No, you’re doing it again, where you ask me about myself so you don’t have to tell me things. I do want to know about you, Mariette. How is Nikki? Are you happy? How is everyone else?” 

She grinned, but obliged. “Nikki is very well. He seems to get everything he needs from me and his piano. I think he’s happy to have somewhere to belong that isn’t home. I am as happy as I can be on twenty francs a week. As for the others,” she sighed, “they’ve all gone, as far as I know, which is what I thought might have happened to you. Paris is a hard place to be these days.” she gave a rueful twist of her mouth that might have passed for a smile. “Now, you tell me honestly, are you writing to that friend of yours?” 

“Not at the moment, but I’m...going to,” Poe said. Letters had arrived from Herr Skywalker promptly every second week in the beginning. As he had picked up his shifts, struggling to fight off his demons, he had let them pile up, wondering with some part of him that he didn’t care to name if they would stop altogether. They had not. Bertie had stacked them neatly on the kitchen table, saying nothing, and Poe had tried not to think of the monumental task of making up for his awful correspondence. 

That evening, after he had left Mariette with a promise of a meeting again soon, he took the long way home, watching his breath cloud in the air as he walked the frosted streets. In the long list of apologies he had needed to make, the one to Bertie had been the easiest. He had taken it as he took everything, with a kind nod and a remark about how much better Poe was looking since he started at Épicerie Kenobi. It was almost enough to drive him mad, the way his flat mate kept so calm about everything. He wondered, not for the first time, what it would take for Bertie to lose his temper and decided, as he always did, that he didn’t really care to know. Apologizing to Mariette had been more difficult to work up to, but in the end, she hadn’t even been as angry as he had anticipated. He certainly felt he deserved whatever ill thoughts she harboured about him, but had been surprised to feel as much...relief. He still didn’t know quite what to make of that, and set it aside for further contemplation when he had the emotional stamina for that sort of thing. 

He had left the most difficult to last. Conversation he could manage. Seeing faces, feeling emotions, all of that made hard conversations easier for him to navigate, but letters...letters were different. He had felt out of his depth in his paper bound conversation with Herr Skywalker from the very beginning, unsure of how to say what he needed to say, or even what it was he was supposed to say. What details mattered? What extras were boring to his reader? How, he wondered for the thousandth time, did a person go about nurturing a relationship where they never saw the object of their pursuit? Even worse, how was a person to go about apologizing for a four month silence in a conversation that was already stretched out of its natural shape? 

Returning at last to the apartment, shaking the clinging fingers of the cold from his coat and hat, he decided that the first step would be to tackle the stack of letters on the table. Bertie had gone, off to a viewing of some painter that Poe couldn’t remember, possibly Manot, and he was quite alone in their little room with the accusing pile of paper. Opening the first, he began to read. Each began the same, picked carefully out in Luke’s precise English. 

_“Dear Poe,_

_I hope that this letter finds you well, and in a position to enjoy the fine French weather.”_

It was appropriate somehow, that Luke still spoke of the little things, at least to start. As he read on, there were snippets that spoke of something more, and a growing concern that made him cringe. 

_“...business becomes increasingly difficult in these difficult days...I do not have the heart to tell her that this must all get better before it gets worse...I do hope that you are well and look forward to hearing from you...she has brought a bright spot of the Italian ‘vivace’ into our home...if you have changed your address, please let me know...hope you have not fallen upon difficulty...hear France has also suffered greatly in her economy this year...hope very much to hear from you…”_

The words spun in his head as he digested all that he had read. He had hoped that reading the letters would make penning one of his own less daunting of a task, but seeing the evidence of Herr Skywalker’s concern, knowing that he had caused it, only made it more difficult. He took a deep breath, steadying himself with the pen poised above his paper. A slow drip beaded onto the end of the nib as he hesitated, wondering how to begin. It fell and, from the splash, he began to write. 

“Dear Luke…”

 

**Outside Berlin, Germany.**

Luke sighed, kneading the heels of his hands into his eyes and hoping that if he looked away long enough the accounts would somehow solve themselves. His father had been an excellent businessman, by all accounts. Long-standing customers still praised his excellent service, daring, and his initiative, but Luke had seen through painful experience that the one thing missing from the late Anakin Skywalker’s business repertoire had been a way with numbers. He himself was not terribly gifted, but he prided himself on knowing at least that a business should have more numbers in the assets column than it did in the liabilities column. His father, it appeared, had not been of the same opinion, and it was his legacy to his children to sort out where exactly the money had gone, to whom, in what quantity, and why. Every time he thought he had the matter sorted, some new piece of paper would be found in a back closet that would undo all of his careful work and he would be back to the beginning all over again. He had hoped, with the onset of the war, that his troubles were ended. The business was in a prosperous enough position, he had dealt with every outstanding sum he could find, and war - though no one cared to admit as much- was a prosperous thing. 

He was beginning to understand, however, that the wake of war was quite another thing, particularly for the losing side. The mark had plummeted in the aftermath of the treaty, and it was all he could manage to keep up with the rapidly deteriorating exchange rate. He set his reading glasses aside, looking down at the blurring columns of squiggles on the page before him. What was done was done, for this evening at least, though his accomplishments had not been numerous. 

“Late hours you’re keeping these days, brother.” 

Luke looked up at the sound of Leia’s voice. She stood in the doorway to the study in her night things, hair unbound and cascading down her shoulders in a glossy wave. She looked tired, deep shadows beneath her eyes and lines etched deep into her face where none had been before. 

“I suppose,” he replied, glancing at his clock, “I hadn’t really been paying attention.” 

“May I come in?” Something in her tone made him hesitate, studying her face in the light of the desk lamp. 

“Yes, of course.” He pushed his chair back from the desk, stretching out the clicks and kinks in his shoulders as she settled herself into one of the spare armchairs. He waited, watching her chew her bottom lip the way she always did when she had something on her mind. 

“Were the children bothering you this evening?” she asked at last, in a line that he suspected was oblique to her purpose. 

“Not really, no.” 

This was not strictly true. Rey had started school a week prior to Christmas and had taken to sitting in his study, voraciously consuming any book she could get her hands on, the better to ask him why the author hadn’t written it a different way. It had been soothing in an odd way, and he certainly appreciated her company, thinking nothing of her choice of evening pursuits. There were a great many things he had thought nothing of, in fact, until Ben had come home for the term break. It had been suspicion at first sight and he and Rey had been at each others' throats for the last two weeks. 

The tension had come to a head when Ben had entered the study earlier that evening to find Rey sitting in his usual armchair, curled up with one of his favourite books. No matter that he had brought his own book to read, or that Luke had placed two armchairs in his study in anticipation of a business meeting the following morning. Rey had taken over his place and it was the last straw in what had, he had immediately been informed, a long list of ways in which Ben could clearly see how Rey was replacing him in the family’s affections. To which Rey, defending her honour with vicious accuracy, had pointed out that it wouldn’t be such an easy task if he wasn’t such a contrary, pompous, arrogant child. In the end, they had both stormed off to separate corners of the house and Luke had secretly thanked God that it hadn’t come to blows for, now that she was being fed regularly, Rey had a punch like a boxer and might have done Ben some serious injury. 

“I don’t know what to do with him, Luke,” Leia whispered, staring at the carpet a few feet in front of her slippered feet. “I hoped that sending him to school, letting him see other children, more perspectives, that it would help him to be less...rigid. I thought it might bring us closer together if he had some time apart from us, but it hasn’t.” She sniffed, and Luke thought he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes, “It’s only pulled him farther away from me. From us. Tonight I had to tell him that he was still my son and I still loved him.” She cuffed impatiently at her eyes, “Parents shouldn’t have to say those things to their children.” 

“No,” Luke agreed, “they shouldn’t.”   
“Han tells me that he’s nearly seventeen, that there’s nothing we can do about it, that I should just...give up him,” he voice hardened, “but I can’t do that, Luke. I can’t. I’m his mother. If I don’t help him, who will?” 

“I don’t know.” He rose, crossing to the liquor cabinet that stood across from his desk. The whiskey gurgled pleasantly as it tumbled into the two crystal glasses, sparkling against the etched patterns. 

“What did I do wrong?” Leia’s voice was hollow behind him and he sighed, carrying her glass to her before going back to collect his own. 

“He’s so good with you,” she continued, sipping at her drink, “you know when he was younger once he asked to run away with you.” 

“No,” Luke said, shocked, “no, I didn’t know that.” 

“I hated you a little that day,” she admitted, not meeting his eyes, “I wanted that kind of easy relationship you had with him. He’s always adored you.” 

Luke shrugged, embarrassed, “I’ve never had to be his parent, Leia. He’s never needed any kind of discipline from me, which has little to do with me and everything to do with my role. I’m not his father, in fact I’ve done my very best not to be. If it was difficult for him, we didn’t discuss it. If he didn’t want to abide by the rules, he left the study. We’ve never had to have a fight.” 

“I wonder sometimes if that wouldn’t have been easier,” she laughed, “I certainly can’t say I ever enjoyed the fights.” 

“No one does, I don’t expect. And it might have been easier in the short term,” he added, “but I doubt it would have worked forever. There would have been other problems.” 

“I know. But sometimes I wonder what I could have done differently. If I could have helped him sooner.” 

“I think you’ve always done your best,” Luke said quietly, “and that’s all that anyone can ask.” 

“I’m just afraid that my best hasn’t been enough,” Leia responded with a rueful smile, “and that’s what keeps me up at night.” 

They were quiet for a moment, the little clock on his desk whirring back and forth, its tiny mechanical sounds filling the room. He wanted to reassure her, tell her, as Han no doubt had, that Ben was nearly a man and needed to make his own decisions, but he knew it wouldn’t help. This wasn’t something that would be fixed with words. Or perhaps at all. 

“Thank you for listening,” Leia sighed, placing her empty glass on his desk. “It does help.” 

“You’re welcome, as always.”

She paused at the door to the study, hand dropping to the pocket of her dressing gown. “This was waiting for you outside your door,” she said, frowning slightly, “Rey is taking her job as postal officer very seriously.” She passed him a small brown envelope. His heart lurched as he saw the writing on its front. 

“Has he finally written you?” 

“I-I’m sorry?” Luke replied, put off-balance by her question. 

“Your French friend,” she clarified, nodding at the envelope. She smiled at the shocked expression on his face, “I’m not a child, Luke, I’ve seen your post. There have been a good deal of letters to Paris going out and very few coming in.” 

“Yes, of course. Yes. I-I do believe that he has written me back at last.” 

“I’m glad.” She kissed him gently on the forehead. “Now go to bed, it’s late.” 

“I will,” he promised distractedly, already examining the letter. 

“Goodnight, Luke.” 

“Goodnight.” 

He opened the envelope carefully, a strange feeling in his stomach. It was certainly Poe’s writing on the front, postmarked Paris, same return address. He had nearly come to the conclusion that something had changed and Poe no longer wished to hear from him, but the looping script on the page put his fears to rest. 

_Dear Luke,_

_I should begin with an apology, though I am completely unsure of how. The last few months in France have been difficult, as you predicted, and I have not been easy in my own mind. I know that there is no excuse, but I hope that you will forgive me for such a long silence. Things are beginning to take a turn to the better and I hope that our ~~correspondence~~ conversation might continue now that I’m no longer wallowing in my own misery. Thank you for not giving up on me._

_In response to your questions, yes, I am quite well. I have recently taken on a job at Épicerie Kenobi, which keeps me very busy. M. Kenobi has been most kind and helped me to get back on a straight track. Bertie is well, working in a florist’s across the street and still flirting with our landlady. Mariette sends you her best and hopes that you are well._

_I am sorry to hear about your business difficulties, accounts are something I know nothing about at all. I don’t envy your task in the least! Business is also difficult in Paris, we have had several strikes and a good deal of other nonsense besides. I admire your sister’s persistence in politics, I can only imagine the difficulty she is facing. I hope that she is right and you are not (forgive me) but I think we could all do with some better fortune before we get the worse._

_I hope that Christmas has treated you and your family well, and wish you all the best in the New Year._

_Yours,_

_Poe_

Luke frowned, studying the blots of ink on the page that spoke of a hand held in hesitation. There was something else lurking behind the words, a distance that he couldn’t quite bridge, but he decided to take Poe at his word that he was well. The little desk clock began its tinkling chime as he picked up his pen and began to write his reply.


	12. Chapter 12

**28 August, 1920. Antwerp, Berlin**  
Poe felt his stomach roll as he wound his way through the crowds of Antwerp Central train station. His third class ticket had been easier to come by than he had expected, but what joy he had felt at his success had been thoroughly dashed from his mind by the awful motion sickness that had plagued him on the day’s journey from Paris. Four hours had seemed like ten as the heat and noise had swirled around him, making him wish that he had arrived earlier and chosen a seat that didn’t face backward. It wasn’t as though he spent much time appreciating the view. He took a deep breath, steadying himself against the elegant balustrade of the sweeping central staircase. The tile floor spread before him in a dizzying pattern, and he closed his eyes, trying once again to convince his breakfast to stay where it was. Fresh air was what he needed, and he made his unsteady way toward the street. With the impressive façade of the station behind him, he folded himself gratefully onto a bench in its shade as the gold-faced station clock began to strike eleven. 

He set his traveling bag beside him on the bench and pulled a much creased and stained envelope from the pocket of his coat. He told himself that he needed to check the address again - no matter that he had checked it at least seven times that day and had long since committed it to memory before he had boarded the train. Herr Skywalker’s words on the page were a welcome distraction from his rebellious insides and he read them over again, unable to suppress a small shiver of delight. 

_Dear Poe,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health and enjoying the fine July heat. Yes, thank you, I did return from Copenhagen in good health. The business there was less profitable than I had hoped, but the trip was not entirely wasted, as I had occasion to meet a friend with some excellent connections in Belgium. It is a long story of school acquaintance, favours, and backroom deals with which I shall not bore you, but the end of the whole matter is that I have been invited to a brief conference in Antwerp at the end of August. I am unsure of your current circumstances but, as the conference date coincides with the Olympic Games in that city, I have been unable to get a round trip and find myself with a day to myself before I can return to Berlin. The games hold little appeal for me, but I did wonder if, considering the relative closeness of Antwerp and Paris, you might like to join me for part of that time._

_I certainly do not wish to impose upon you at all, I know you have much to occupy you these days, but if you are able to make your way north, I will be staying at the Hotel duMaurier, 10, Herrystraat._

_I was glad to hear of your recent success with the youngest of the Kenobi ladies. I’m certain that you’ve won her undying affection at this point, though I must say I admire your commitment to the task. I certainly don’t know of any finer way to demonstrate goodwill than throwing yourself so into the role of slain dragon that you fall down two flights of stairs. I am pleased you didn’t injure yourself too badly, and hope that the laughter of your audience healed whatever bruises you might have sustained.  
I have hardly been home three hours and Rey is convinced that I am ignoring her current mathematics project in favour of you, and so I shall close for now. I look forward to hearing from you soon. _

_-Luke_

Poe still had not quite decided whether or not Luke had been mocking him about the Kenobi girls. After his rousing performance of _Le Chat Botté_ , Marie had returned to her usual silence, regarding him suspiciously from behind her dark hair at every occasion He had made several efforts to put her at her ease, somewhat surprised at how much her mistrust bothered him. It had all culminated, as he had recounted in a letter to Luke, in Madeleine and Marie convincing him to be the dragon in their dramatic reenactment of some fairy tale or other. They were forever making up intricately detailed plots of long-lost love and monster slaying, and he had lost track of them all. Madeleine had informed him partway through this particular drama that, though he made a very passable dragon, it was quite unfair that he kept evading capture and gruesome death. Marie, at her sister’s insistence, had then poked him gently with a cardboard sword and he had done his best to improve his performance, resulting in a rather ungraceful tumble down the stairs to the kitchen. Colette, startled from her baking, had proceeded to drop a wooden scoop of flour onto his head. 

Despite their sister’s scolding, both younger girls had deemed the whole endeavour a rousing success and Marie had given her longest play speech yet, mourning his loss and delighting in her victory. It might have been the bruise on his forehead from the flour scoop, but something about the performance had given the littlest Kenobi a boost of confidence. At the very least, she smiled when he came in the room instead of hiding behind Madeleine. Even Monsieur Kenobi had remarked upon it, noting the remarkably curative powers of slaying old dragons. Poe had never asked what brought the girls to live with their grandfather and, after that comment, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

In any case, his heroic efforts at winning the trust of the household had come back to him tenfold in the last month. The Kenobis had welcomed him into their household like one of their own, and he found himself curiously touched by their evident affection for him. It came as a surprise to him, sitting alone on the bench in front of the station, that he was starting to miss them. The thought jarred him from his recollection and he folded the letter into its envelope, returning it to his pocket. If he was going to be away, then he might as well make good use of his time and see what was to be seen. 

Antwerp had recovered remarkably from the war, by all that he could tell as he slung his bag over his shoulder and set off in search of the Hotel duMaurier. The beautiful port city had suffered terribly under shelling from both sides and, though there was still a tenderness in the air, the bubbling energy of the Olympics had all but covered it over entirely. The streets were crowded for some distance as he left the station behind him, filled with a lively energy and a crisp touch of salt on the stiff breeze that blew in from the water. The fresh air had done wonders for his stomach, and Poe found his mood brightening considerably as he wandered along the streets, past the zoo, and into Kattenberg. 

In very little time, however, he found himself hopelessly lost, his good mood slowly slipping from him as the afternoon wore on and he was no closer to his destination. In fact, through some strange trick of fate, he had ended up next to a large collection of garden and water that a passing lady assured him was the Rivierenhof. Sweating now in the August heat, Poe sat on a bench, watching parades of well-dressed folk taking in the bright sunshine. One gentlemen, rather more plainly dressed, caught Poe’s attention as he wandered along the street, clearly caught in the spectacle of the bright city around him. So much so, in fact, that he nearly walked right over a lady in an ostentatious ostrich feathered hat, who shrieked in terror and outrage. It was little like watching a slow motion tragedy, the way the overdone piece of millinery tumbled from her head and onto the pavement, to the horror of everyone around except for Poe, who could hardly keep his laughter to himself. The lady flapped about in considerable agitation, the fine hat momentarily forgotten, collecting the dust of the street until the plainly dressed gentleman picked it up and handed it to the lady, apologizing profusely. 

In an effort to preserve her bruised dignity, the lady took the hat with icy hauteur, placing it back on her head without a word of thanks to the gentlemen, who looked after her, bemused, as she stalked away down the pavement, before once again studying his surroundings. His eyes turned towards the benches and, before Poe had time to wipe the grin from his face, the man approached him, a wry smile on his own dark face. 

“Do you mind if I share your bench, stranger?” he asked in heavily accented French. “I seem to be causing trouble wherever I go today; perhaps the universe is asking me to sit things out awhile.” 

“Not at all!” Poe slid his bag off the bench, “Consider it a gratuity for the comedic performance.” 

The man grimaced, settling down beside Poe on the bench. “It was rather ridiculous, wasn’t it? I didn’t expect her to screech like a wounded cat...” 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Poe assured him. “I’m sure the lady will make a full recovery. You looked like you had your mind on other things in any case. Are you lost?” 

“Was it that obvious?” The man’s face fell. 

“Only because I’m lost myself,” Poe laughed, “I know the feeling too well to miss it.” He held out a hand. “Poe Dameron.” 

The gentleman gave a broad, winning smile that Poe suspected was the envy of ladies for several miles around. “Finn,” he said, shaking Poe’s hand heartily. “I must say, Monsieur Dameron, it’s good to meet another lost soul. I don’t know how on earth I got here, or how I’m to get back to the village. No one I’ve asked knows quite how to get from here to there. Thank goodness I don’t race until next week!” 

“Race?” Poe raised an eyebrow, “You’re here for the Games?” 

“Men’s 10,000 and team cross country,” Finn replied. 

“Wait-you’re not...forgive me, but are you-”

“Flying Finn, yes.” Finn rubbed the back of his neck with a square hand, “Though not to anyone except the papers.” 

“Never met a runner before,” Poe admitted, impressed. “So you’re looking for the village?” 

“Yes, I was supposed to be back there an hour ago.” 

“Well, that decides it,” Poe said firmly, standing up from the bench, “We’d better find someone to show us how to get out of this park and back to where we need to be.” 

With their joint navigational abilities, the two of them were at least able to find a passing policeman, who offered to escort Finn back to the Olympic village. On the way, the trio crossed the Van Steenlandstraat and the police officer pointed to the southwest. “This is the street you want, Monsieur,” he said to Poe, “Just follow it and turn at your first right. You’ll find Herrystraat.” 

“It was good to meet you, Monsieur Finn,” Poe said, offering a hand to the athlete. 

“And you, Monsieur Dameron!” The man exclaimed, shaking the proffered hand warmly. “I hope we meet again someday.” 

“You never know,” Poe grinned, turning down the VanSteenlandstraat, “You just never know. Good luck in your race, monsieur!” 

 

*  
“Herr Skywalker, such a pleasure to finally meet you!”

Luke felt something inside him try desperately to crawl away as he was gripped energetically by the hand. His business contact, a smiling, fair-haired boy who looked as though he was about twelve, was Herr Dieter Morgenstern, a representative of Morgenstern Industrie and just about the most effluvient person Luke had ever had the misfortune to encounter. 

“The pleasure is all mine, Herr Morgenstern,” he demurred, escaping the handshake as quickly as was possible within the bounds of propriety. 

“No, sir, it is a complete honour to meet so great a German hero,” Morgenstern insisted, taking him firmly by the arm and leading him into the Café Endr, completely oblivious to the hostile looks his loud and obvious Bavarian German was attracting from passers by. 

The interior of the café was stifling in the August heat and Luke’s shirt clung to his back beneath his jacket as a dour-faced waiter led them to a corner table. “I regret very much that I was unable to take up arms myself,” Herr Morgenstern continued as they were seated. “You must tell me all about your adventures once we have concluded our business discussions.” 

“Of course,” Luke said absently, looking up at their waiter. The man’s disdain was evident on his face, an effect which was heightened by his long, sharp nose and prodigious height. “ _Simplement un thé citron, s’il vous plait_ ,” Luke said, somewhat uncertainly. The man looked as though he were about to lose his temper.

“ _Oui_.” He glanced over to Herr Morgenstern, who ordered an espresso with rather more youthful arrogance than was strictly necessary. Without another word, the waiter left them. Herr Morgenstern raised his eyebrows, scoffing in the gently offended manner reserved for the very young and foolish. 

“Such poor manners,” he said, his German clipped and precise as he watched the waiter pass their order over to a bored looking man of middle age sitting behind the bar. “You would think we were still at war.” 

“Perhaps,” Luke allowed, desiring nothing less than to conclude business as quickly as possible and leave this awful situation behind. 

“I am quite serious, Herr Skywalker,” Herr Morgenstern continued as their drinks returned to the table beneath the glare of the waiter, “all of this hostility is quite ridiculous to me. I mean, to think that Germany has not been permitted to compete at the Olympics! Are crippling reparations not atonement enough for being beaten by the Allies? Must we suffer public embarrassment as well?”

“I really couldn’t say.” 

“It makes my blood boil,” the boy exclaimed, slamming his palm onto the table so hard the flatware jumped from their placemats, tinkling against the porcelain saucers. “This heaping of shame onto our shoulders is not only unnecessary, but dishonourable as well.” Morgenstern shook his head, then sighed deeply. “But forgive me, Herr Skywalker. We are here to talk of business, not politics.” 

“Quite so.”

Under the sickly caresses of the painfully obvious attempts at flattery and gentility of this earnest, blonde boy, Luke felt as though he were suffocating, his chest constricting ever further as the afternoon wore on. The discussion of their joint assets and the possibility of a partnership stretched ever longer into the heat of the day, in large part to Herr Morgenstern’s extraordinary ability to talk for some time while saying very little. Luke had realized in short order that there would be very little possibility of a partnership with Morgenstern Industrie. Not only did the young heir to the company have all the business sense of a cardboard box, but it became apparent from the increasingly harsh atmosphere of the café that any German business venture in Belgium would be coolly received at best. As if to punctuate his thought, the table jumped beneath the saucer that the waiter slammed onto the cloth, cutting Morgenstern off mid-phrase. 

“ _Votre facture, monsieur_ ,” the man said brusquely. 

“ _Merci_ ,” Luke replied, striving to restrain his fraying temper. The man’s tone had been barely within the bounds of civility through the duration of the meal and, combined with the dark and distrustful gazes of the other patrons and the appalling company he had been forced to endure, he felt his patience begin to wear thin. 

“Well, I’ll not be pushed out by poor service before I’ve finished my drink,” the boy said firmly, taking a slow sip from his cup. How he had made one espresso last for two hours was completely beyond Luke’s comprehension, though when he considered the ceaseless barrage of conversation the boy had sustained, it was not so implausible. “If only we hadn’t signed that damn treaty,” Morgenstern continued, “we might have turned out on the winning side after all.” A harsh bark of laughter escaped his throat, “then we might be pleased to dine where we wished and expect service befitting gentlemen.” 

“If we had not signed the treaty,” Luke answered wearily, “we would all have been dead of starvation within the month.” 

Morgenstern frowned, troubled by such coarse truth from the mouth of ‘so great a German hero’. “You surprise me, Herr Skywalker,” he said, “I would have thought that a man of your reputation would have had good cause to be angered by the way the whole dispute fell out.” 

“There is a great difference,” Luke said evenly, willing himself not to be goaded to sharp words by the reduction of several years of hardship and suffering to a ‘dispute’, “between disliking the use of a thing and disliking the thing itself. I agree, Germany was ill-served by this peace, but peace was our only option. Take my word for it, Herr Morgenstern,” he continued, pressing the point as the stars began to fall behind the boy’s blue eyes, “there is very little glory to be had in starving to death while one watches over one’s shoulder every moment of every day, looking for a bullet in the back.” 

He did not keep the harshness from his tone, and felt only a small twinge of guilt as Morgenstern’s face fell. “So,” the boy said stiffly, “You are of the opinion that we should have just given up?” 

“There is little sense in pursuing a matter when it is so thoroughly decided. Please excuse me,” Luke said crisply, rising from his seat and walking to the counter to pay the bill. The waiter regarded him with undisguised hostility as he rang in the total. Luke sighed, “I’m sorry you’ve had such trying customers this afternoon, monsieur,” he said in French, “I do hope your day improves.” 

The man’s eyes widened, but he said nothing, handing over the change somewhat suspiciously. Luke took it without a word, suddenly very tired of the whole thing. Tired of apologizing, tired of protesting, tired of the weary, awful politics that had consumed the continent, and tired, more than anything, of his company. He had probably been too sharp with Morgenstern and would no doubt regret it later, but the utter idiocy of his words still burned and he found himself taking a perverse kind of satisfaction from the boy’s crestfallen expression as they left the café. He looked as though someone had died and, as he thought on it, Luke supposed he was right. “Thank you for your time, Herr Skywalker,” he said stiffly, holding out a soft hand, “I look forward to hearing from you again.” 

“You are quite welcome,” Luke responded, shaking his hand once. Without a glance backward, he turned his steps towards his hotel, unwilling to see the demise of a hero on the young man’s face. 

The heat, tempered by a slight breeze now that he had left the close confines of the café behind, coiled about him in moist ribbons as he made his way down the street towards his hotel. A headache had begun to build behind his eyes, a black fuzz throbbing in his peripheral vision with the rhythm of his pulse. He found himself increasingly troubled by such inconvenient episodes as the strains of his business duties began to take their hold on him. He had begun more seriously to consider his tutor’s insistence that he return to the delight of his university days and come back to teaching undergraduates the nuance of German language and literature. Dr. Jode had written him no less than eight times over the past months, gently encouraging him to leave business behind and take up the pen and, though he had persisted in what he considered his duty to his family, on days like this Luke was almost ready to post his acceptance of the long vacant tenure position the good professor was constantly complaining of. 

It would certainly stop Leia from looking over his shoulders while he worried over shipping and accounts. Now that politics was beginning to lose its appeal, she had been dealing with the crushing boredom of household administration by hovering over him, double checking his every move and offering irritatingly accurate suggestions. Yes, it would do little good to postpone the inevitable. She’d be running the business in less than a year in any case, and she was better at it than he could ever hope to be. He may as well save himself a year of annoyance and let her take over. He began composing a letter to Herr Jode in his mind as he turned out of the Van Steelenstradt and into the quiet and picturesque Herrystradt but, upon lifting his eyes briefly from the pavement, all thoughts about German Romantics abruptly fell away. 

Poe stood in the street, bag slung over his shoulder, collar unbuttoned under the onslaught of the summer heat, tie loose and fluttering in the breeze as he studied the numbers on the houses that lined the street, his brows drawn together in concentration. The linen of his shirt clung to his shoulders, highlighting the appealing line of his arms. Luke waited for a moment, suddenly lightheaded, trying to pull a greeting out of the tangled confusion of his mind and telling himself that it was this intolerable weather that brought the flush to his cheeks. In the end, Poe looked away from the houses up the street and Luke was forced to settle for a nod, unable to get a word past the sudden dryness in his throat as he watched the smile break over Poe’s face. 

“Herr Skywalker!” 

He felt a wave of fear as Poe came toward him, cold and sickening. Letters were one thing, but he couldn’t help but recall the distance that had been between them at their last meeting and the thought that it might somehow fall between them again after such a careful re-cultivation of their acquaintance was nearly more than he could bear. Poe stopped just short of him, breathless, sun-touched, and gorgeous and Luke found himself unable to breathe for the tension that gripped him. Then Poe reached out and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m very glad to see you again, Luke.” 

Luke felt something in him spiral into contentment at the sound of his name. He reached up to rest his hand on Poe’s. 

“And I you.” 

The embrace was sudden and nearly overwhelmed him. He felt the tension draining from his limbs as the smell and feel of Poe surrounded him, filling his head with gentle warm. 

“And I you.”


	13. Chapter 13

Poe found himself very grateful that the Hotel DuMaurier, along with all its quaint charm, possessed a rooftop terrace. Though afternoon had faded into evening, it was still unseasonably warm and he was grateful for the breeze that lifted the edges of the tablecloth. His nerves had begun to calm a little and he sipped at his glass of wine, watching across the terrace as Luke negotiated with the maitre d’, trying desperately to imprint every image into his memory for good. 

He hadn’t realized just how much he had missed Luke until he had seen him standing there in the street looking like something out of a dream. For a moment, watching that frozen face, he had been afraid that the distance and the time had been too long, but Luke’s whispered greeting in his ear had set those fears to rest. They had been replaced by this tingling nervousness that sat beneath his skin, an unwelcome and unfamiliar guest. What exactly he was nervous about, he couldn’t have said, but he knew that it had something to do with the reality of being here, dining with Luke, as though they saw one another every day. 

The red of the fading sun caught in Luke’s hair as he made his way back to their table. He had grown it long since he left the army, and Poe appreciated the way it framed his face, curling the slightest bit in the wet sea air. Luke smiled, meeting his gaze, and Poe flushed, realizing he had been staring. 

“So,” he said, taking a sip of wine to cover his embarrassment, “did you solve the issue?” 

Luke grimaced. “They’re full with reservations,” he replied, “we’ll have to sit here with the sun in our eyes.” He fell silent for a moment, studying Poe’s features with a fixity that was somewhat disconcerting before settling back into his chair, taking his wine glass with him. “So,” he said, “Tell me, how are you, Poe? I want to hear everything.” 

“Everything?” Poe grinned, “We might be here all night.” 

Luke raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “You have such an exciting life? Very well, I’ll settle for the highlights.” 

“Really, you already know the highlights,” Poe said, looking down at his wine. He could feel his nervousness returning, the worry that after so much time apart conversation would be stilted, awkward. “Life really just carries on and I like the routine pretty well. Business is a little slow these days, but steady. There’s always work to do for both Bertie and I, and we finally have a family again.” 

Luke smiled, “Ah, yes, the Kenobis. How are they?” 

Poe relaxed a little. This was something he could talk about for hours. “They’re well. Monsieur Kenobi had some difficulty with his arthritis earlier in the year, but he’s on the mend. Marie will start going to school this September. She’s nervous, though she ought not to be, I know she’ll be amazing. It will be good for her to have a chance to be with other children. Madeleine has been the terror of the neighbourhood all summer, she was given a bicycle for her birthday in May and hasn’t hardly gotten off the damn thing since. She’s by far the daredevil, and she likes to think she’s tough. Colette...well, she’s…” Poe felt himself running out of steam, thinking of Colette’s most recent troubles. “She’s been having a difficult time with André Malmont, a kid down the street who thinks that women are pretty to look at but a lot of hassle to have around. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except that he’s got Colette thinking he’s in love with her.” He frowned. “I can’t see it ending well, but she won’t hear a cross word about him, not even from her father.” 

“And has he spoken to her about it?” Luke seemed to drink up the details of the Kenobis as though he thirsted for good news. 

Poe shrugged, “It’s not his way, not really. All he said was that Colette should be careful, which was more than enough. Heaven forbid someone should tell her what to do.” 

Luke nodded, looking somewhere over Poe’s shoulder. “I know the feeling.” 

“I just don’t want her to get hurt.” 

“Sometimes it isn’t possible to keep the ones we love from getting hurt,” Luke’s eyes came back to focus and he smiled a little, “especially in love.” 

“But what about you?” Poe asked, conscious that he had been babbling, “you look all in. Was your business this afternoon a success?” 

“Decidedly not,” Luke replied, mouth twisting. “In fact, I think it may have finally convinced me to give up business for good.” 

“Really?” Poe couldn’t hardly believe it. “Even after all the time you’ve put in?” 

“Especially after all the time,” Luke replied. He looked tired, suddenly, and Poe was reminded of just how much time had passed. Not that Luke looked old, far from it, just that his features were a little more worn. 

“I don’t know that I want to devote the remaining time of my life toward this project, especially in the current economic situation. One needs metal for enamelware, and metal has been decidedly hard to come by since the war. Besides,” he added, “Leia has run out of things to do in the political sphere and is getting bored.” 

It was Poe’s turn to smile, “She’s lovely, but a bit of a hassle to have around?” 

“When she’s not busy, very much so,” Luke agreed. 

“So if you’re going to give the business to your sister, then what will you do instead?” Poe asked, “become a gentleman of leisure?” 

“Hardly,” Luke snorted, “I’d be nearly as much of a hassle as Leia if I did that. No,” he continued, taking another sip of his wine, “I think I might finally take up my old professor on the offer to go and teach German literature.” 

“Is that something you can just do?” Poe asked, “don’t you need...I don’t know, some kind of qualification?” 

Luke smiled, “I did spend a good deal of my youth studying literature. Went to university for it and everything.” 

“I know, I just didn’t know that’s all you had to do. Teaching sounds like a bit of an important thing. All the professors I’ve ever met have been a little on the pompous side, so I just assumed you needed to be important to do it.” 

Luke laughed. “Are you saying I’m not important?” 

“Well you’re not pompous, if that’s what you mean. Though you are the best German pilot to fly, by some accounts, so I suppose that counts for something.” 

Luke’s face fell a little. “Yes, I suppose so,” he said quietly. 

Poe frowned. “Did I say something wrong?” he reached out a hand, hesitating only a moment before resting it on Luke’s arm. “I didn’t mean to offend you or...anything like that.” 

Luke shook his head. “No, no, I’m not offended. I just had a rather difficult conversation this afternoon.” He looked up, a smile trying its best to crawl back onto his face, “It was nothing.” 

Poe’s frown deepend. “It didn’t look like nothing.” 

For a moment, it looked like Luke was going to brush him off again, but then he sighed. “I was reminded that, for many, what we lived through in France was something to look up to, something to tell stories about.” 

Poe waited, guessing that there was more to be said. Luke hadn’t moved his arm, and the fabric of his shirt was soft under his hand. 

“I don’t feel like a hero, Poe,” Luke said at last. “I never have. Being good at killing people isn’t something to boast of, and every time I meet a star-eyed German child or a nostalgic old man, I remember how much was lost. How much we’re still losing.” He looked up. “It wasn’t glorious. And no matter how much the politicians lie about it, it won’t change what happened. Not for me, in any case.” 

Poe thought of the dreams that still kept him awake some nights and nodded. “No. There was a lot going on, but glory was in pretty short supply.” He waited a little longer, but Luke was quiet, staring at his wineglass. “So does that mean that I should call you the best reader of Goethe I’ve ever heard instead?” he asked at last. 

Luke brightened a little. “Surely not the best,” he protested.

“Name someone better,” Poe challenged. 

Luke floundered and Poe sat back with a grin of triumph. “See? I knew it. Best there is.” He took an unreasoning amount of satisfaction in the way Luke’s cheeks coloured with pleasure at the praise. It felt good, knowing he could do that. “Truly, Luke,” he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. “You’ll be great at teaching. And, really, if you can convince me to like German poetry, you can convince anyone.” 

“I feel like I might have had an advantage in your case that it would be unwise to cultivate with future students,” Luke replied, smiling again. 

“What, that I was cuffed and couldn’t get away?” Poe said, “Nah, you should probably keep that strategy out of your arsenal. People might complain.” 

Luke looked about to correct him, but then shook his head. “You’re right. Probably best if I let them escape from time to time.” 

*  
Dinner went on for longer than was strictly within the bounds of propriety. The rooftop terrace filled, emptied, and filled again as the cocktail crowd came out to take their ease in the sultry evening air. They talked about everything under the sun and Luke found himself letting go of the tension that had hung over him since the disastrous business meeting. There was something about being with Poe that made him feel what he thought might be contentment. Conversation was easy, and he spoke with a frankness that he normally reserved for very important conversations with Leia. Even then, he wasn’t sure that talking with her had ever felt this effortless, this real. 

Perhaps it was that everything sat easily on Poe. Hardship seemed never to have sharpened him, only smoothed out some of his youthful edge, making him deeper, more solid than Luke had remembered him. Yet, though he looked older, there was still the same life in his face, the same unconscious self-assurance Luke remembered from their evenings in Paris. He was still quick to smile, and his pleasant mood was still as infectious as ever. 

The conversation ebbed for a moment, and he realized that he had lost track of what had been said, caught up in his observation. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” 

Poe smirked. “I asked if you were ready to show me the sights, now that it’s returned to normal human temperatures. Besides,” he added, gallantly ignoring Luke’s embarrassment at being caught staring, “I think I need to walk off this meal, or I’ll be rolling back to my room.” 

“The food was very fine,” Luke agreed, “but I’m not sure I’ll be able to show you much for sights. Certainly nothing like you’re used to.” 

“Luke,” Poe sighed, “If I wanted what I was used to, I would have stayed in Paris. I want to see whatever there is to see, since I spent most of my afternoon wandering around completely lost, and more than that, I want to see whatever you have to show me.” 

“Alright,” Luke replied cautiously, “though it’s a bit of a walk, I don’t know if you’re-”

“Oh, for God’s sake, just come on,” Poe said through another bout of that infectious laughter. Luke let himself be taken by the arm and marched to the stairs and out into the soft Belgian dusk. 

“So, where are we going?” Poe asked. Their arms were still linked, and he made no move to pull away, which caused Luke no small amount of consternation. 

“West,” he said, forcing himself to relax into Poe’s casual touch, even though it was causing his heart to beat crazily in his chest, “back toward the Scheldt.” 

“Good,” Poe replied, “You can show me the way I should have come to get here the first time.” 

Arm in arm, they walked down the quiet streets towards the light and bustle in the west. This part of the city had seen heavy shelling during the siege of the city near the beginning of the war, but it was slowly coming back to life. 

“Remarkable, isn’t it,” Luke murmured, “how in only a few years it will be as if war never happened here.” 

“It makes sense, I suppose,” Poe said with a shrug, “How many battles have been fought all over the world where the only evidence is some little plaque in a field or something? I’m sure this one will be the same.” 

“Possibly,” Luke agreed, “I suppose it only seems bigger because we were there.” 

“Not that it wasn’t big,” Poe hastened to add, “Just that...I don’t know.” He frowned down at the street. They walked several blocks in silence while Luke waited for him to get his thoughts in order. It somehow didn’t seem right to interrupt. 

“Do you ever look around at...at all this, and think just how tiny and insignificant we are?” Poe said at last as they crossed onto the Kattenberg. “How everything that seems so big and important is just a small piece of everything?” 

“No,” Luke said softly, somewhat taken aback by the sudden turn to philosophy. “No, I hadn’t really given it much thought, though I suppose you’re quite right.” 

“Do you think they’ll remember us?” Poe asked. 

“They? They who?” 

“You know,” he gestured vaguely toward the evening sky, “People a hundred years from now. We studied the Romans and everything, I just wonder if what happened was big enough that someone will study us one day.” 

Luke blinked. “I… I confess I hadn’t really thought about that either,” he said. He thought of the peace, and everything that had fallen apart since and he sighed. “I hope they do.” 

“Not as though it would teach them much, I suppose,” Poe said with a short huff of laughter, “I mean, we didn’t learn, did we?”  
“No,” Luke agreed, “we truly didn’t.” 

They were quiet again, each lost in their own thoughts. For his part, Luke was thinking of the ghosts of mistakes past. He came dangerously close to brooding on them, in fact, until Poe shook himself and turned that radiant smile on him again. 

“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to put a damper on the mood. There has to be something less dreary we can talk about. Tell me more about this literature thing,” he continued, “You’ve never told me much about your school days. What on earth led you to choose that area of study?” 

Luke smiled and shook his head. “In large part, because it was exactly the opposite of what my father wanted for me.” 

“Contrary to the core, I knew it,” Poe grinned. 

“I freely confess it,” Luke replied. “Although, in truth, I had always had a liking for languages and poetry, so the choice made a great deal more sense than engineering or law. I was not the most dutiful of students, so I doubt that any other course of study would have served me very well.” 

“I can sympathize with you there,” Poe said, “I was fairly dismal at school, though mostly because I wanted desperately to be off having adventures instead.” 

“Yes,” Luke agreed, “That certainly played a large part in my youth as well. But all in all, university was a good choice, I think, though it was not all a picnic.” 

“It must have been a picnic enough, for you to want to go back.” 

Luke considered the comment. “Yes, I suppose it helps that the people who made the experience less than a picnic have moved on to other… ‘adventures’ as you say.” 

“Don’t tell me you had an arch-enemy,” Poe teased and Luke shook his head.

“Nothing of the sort,” he replied. 

“Dramatic student conflict?” 

“No.” Luke hesitated for a moment, suddenly unsure of his ground in the conversation. He was being vague, and he knew it, but the truth seemed to sit somewhere outside of his reach. He took a deep breath. 

“I’ve picked another winning topic, I can see,” Poe said with a rueful smile. “I didn’t mean to pry.” 

“No, it’s nothing,” Luke protested and, more frightened by Poe’s withdrawal than his own discomfort, he added, “I met my… well, I suppose she would by my ex wife now. I met her at school, and it sours the memory somewhat.” 

“Wait.” Poe stopped in his tracks, his sudden immobility pulling Luke’s arm from his. “You’ve been married?” 

Left unmoored and regretting his honesty, Luke nodded. 

“Huh.” To Luke’s surprise, Poe took his hand and began walking again.“I knew it was dramatic student conflict,” he said in a matter of fact tone. Luke stumbled for a step before he got back into his stride, matching Poe’s easy pace. 

“So, she’s off on other adventures?” Poe asked. 

“Um, yes, in a manner of speaking. I think she rather enjoys being unattached.” Luke thought of Liesl’s occasional letters, the dictatorial tone of her entreaties for him to finally settle down and stop making her look as though she had abandoned him. Not that she had, far from it. The parting had been as mutual as such things can be, but the memory of it still stung, especially here, with his hand gripped in Poe’s, walking down the street like… like… 

Luke pulled his hand away, taking refuge in his pockets and savagely repressing the little pang of regret he felt at the loss of contact. 

“It was some time ago,” he finished lamely, “and I’m looking forward to new experiences at the university.” 

“Hours a day trying to get a bunch of self-important students interested in long-dead German poets,” Poe paraphrased. “It suits you.” 

Luke tried to decide whether or not that had been an insult, but Poe just laughed, throwing a companionable arm about his shoulders. “I was joking, Luke,” he said, “Come on, I’ve already said I think you’ll be brilliant at it. Now,” he continued, “Where are these sights we’re supposed to be seeing? All I see are endless shops and houses.” 

“It’s just another few blocks,” Luke replied, letting the warmth of Poe’s arm melt into his shoulders, secretly glad of it. 

The streets had grown busier as they approached the old town, well lit and bright with life. Suddenly, the little maze of streets opened up into a large and brightly lit square and Luke was gratified by Poe’s gasp of wonder. 

They had come around the square and now stood facing east, looking up at the towering gothic face of the cathedral. Lamp light flooded the square and poured from the windows of the building, bathing the night in a pleasant amber glow made soft around the edges by the moist air. 

“It’s no Notre Dame,” Luke said quietly as they stood in the square, “But I’ve always liked it.” 

“No,” Poe held up a hand, eyes still fixed on the cathedral. “Stop it, I’m not letting you spoil the mood with that sort of nonsense. It’s beautiful.” 

“Worth the walk?” Luke asked. Poe’s eyes shone with delight as he gazed upward, and Luke felt something tighten in his chest. 

“Oh yes.” His arm had slipped from around Luke’s shoulders and he stood quite apart for several long moments. Luke was struck once more by how very beautiful he was, how the warmth and passion in him seemed to spill out at every opportunity, encompassing everything around him. He wasn’t certain how he had been lucky enough to come into Poe’s acquaintance, but, in that moment, he was quite certain that he didn’t deserve it. 

*  
Poe could hardly contain his happiness as they made their way back towards the hotel, by a different route this time. There was nothing better than this, he was sure. The streetlights softened the star daubed darkness and the air, still warm, was like a caress. Best of all, Luke’s hand was in his and he hadn’t made any move to pull away since they’d left the cathedral square behind them. Whatever had fallen between them on the walk from the hotel seemed to have vanished, though he could still feel the tension. It hung between them, like a distant ache he couldn’t quite soothe. 

He chatted away as Luke led him across the street towards the spreading darkness of the Stadspark, unsure of what he was even talking about or why he couldn’t seem to let silence into their conversation. All he knew was that his heart felt full of… something, something that was very important and, if he just kept talking, then he wouldn’t have to concentrate on feeling quite so much. Luke was obliging, asking question after question about life in Paris, and showing a good deal more interest than he probably felt in the inner workings of the grocery business. 

At last, they were a block from the hotel, and Poe couldn’t stand it any longer. He stopped,right in the middle of whatever Luke had been saying about how nice it was to have good, honest work and stood very still, taking Luke’s hand in both of his. Luke’s voice faltered, and he looked up at him in confusion. 

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked. The idiot. Poe shook his head, unable to keep from smiling. 

“No.” 

He cast around for several moments, looking for the right words to explain the way his chest felt filled to the brim with something completely good and, in the end, settled for something as close as he could come to honesty without pulling out a thesaurus. 

“Luke, this has been...wonderful, really wonderful.” 

“I-I’m glad.” The tension rose again as Luke searched his face, a slight frown puckering his brow. “But I’m not sure what-” 

“I just wanted you to know,” Poe tried to explain, feeling a flush start to creep across his face, “I don’t…” he took a deep breath and looked Luke straight in the eye. “I don’t want to get back on a train away from you tomorrow without telling you how much this has meant to me, how-just how good it is to be here with you without… well,” he faltered, the words running away from him as he thought of everything they’d been through together, of all the walls the world seemed to keep throwing in their way, “without anything else.” It didn’t cover everything, not by half, but right at the edge of it all he’d run out of words. He dropped Luke’s hand and looked down at his shoes, suddenly conscious of just how ridiculous he must seem. “I don’t want to leave again without telling you how much I care for you, Luke,” he whispered. 

Then he waited, shame curling tight around his stomach as the silence stretched on. He kept his eyes locked on his shoes, so the light touch on his cheek startled him. Luke’s hand was warm on his face, guiding his gaze back up to those blue eyes, tinged yellow now in the light of the streetlamp. 

“Thank you,” was all he said, then it was his turn to look away to study Poe’s lapels. “You’re right,” he added, “We have left each other quite a lot, and left things unsaid. Important things, I think.” His hand rested on Poe’s shoulder, warm and reassuring. “Truth does not always come easily to me,” he continued, still talking to Poe’s shirt collar, “especially about… about this sort of thing. So thank you for telling me, and, um… giving me the easy way out,” his eyes flicked up momentarily and Poe saw the fear there, plain as anything. For a moment, the world careened towards the edge of ending, but Luke took another deep breath and continued, “Because I find it much easier to simply say ‘I too’ than… than everything you said.” 

Poe let out a sigh of relief, pulling Luke close to him, needing to feel his warmth despite the heat. They stood there in the dark, holding on to one another for a long time before Poe finally found his voice again. 

“You know, this is going to make getting on a train tomorrow significantly more difficult,” he whispered, still unwilling to let go, wanting this moment to go on forever and never stop. 

Luke’s voice was soft in his ear. “For both of us.” 

**29 August, 1920. Antwerp, Belgium**

In the end, it wasn’t as bad as Luke had expected. It was worse. The train left late, giving them plenty of time for breakfast and coffee before they made their way as slowly as possible to the train station. The confession of the night before seemed to have given Poe more confidence, if such a thing was possible, and he made no pretence at all about touching Luke every chance he got. The contact was mystifying, though not unpleasant, and Luke actually found himself enjoying wandering along the banks of the Scheldt hand in hand. 

At Poe’s insistence, they had stopped to sample that greatest of Belgian achievements - the waffle- for an early lunch. Partway through the strawberries and appalling quantity of whipped cream, Poe looked up with a frown, as though suddenly remembering something. 

“So, for this literary business you’re going into,” he asked with such an overt show of casual disregard that Luke nearly laughed at him, “Will you have to travel much?” 

Luke smiled despite himself. “I expect there will be some travelling involved, yes.” Poe nodded and returned his attention to his waffle. 

“Good.” 

The platform was crowded for an early Sunday, but Luke didn’t resent the press of bodies that made him stand a little closer to Poe. His train was the first to leave, but he waited as long as possible before boarding, not caring if he gave up his seat in first class. The closer his departure came, the more he found it difficult to think of something so simple as letting go of Poe’s hand. The most frustrating thing about it was that he couldn’t explain why it should bother him so much. He fought the feeling of impending loss welling up inside him with all the logic at his disposal, reminding himself that they would see each other again, and had a very healthy correspondence besides. He could hardly expect that their lives would suddenly change over...over whatever they had said the night before that made Poe’s face glow every time their eyes met. It wasn’t reasonable, and he had to get on with things. They both did. He had nearly mustered the nerve to tell Poe exactly that when he felt a the pressure tighten around his hand. He looked to his left and found Poe staring at him with a intensity he had never seen before. 

“I should probably board,” he said, unable to tear his eyes away. 

“Probably,” Poe agreed. Neither of them moved. The whistle rang out for the final call, and Luke felt a sudden urgency pulling at him. He opened his mouth to speak, but found every word in every language he knew except the ones he needed. Then Poe’s lips were on his, a hand on the back of his neck to guide him, and the taste of strawberries in his mouth. His breath caught in his throat, but the kiss was over before it had really began and Poe was pulling away, that damned smile still on his face. 

“Write me, won’t you?” He asked, and Luke couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Of course.” He shook his head at the absurdity of the question. “Of course I will.” It hardly seemed credible, but Poe’s smile widened. 

“Good,” he said, giving his hand one more squeeze before pulling away, “Now go on, you’re going to miss the train.” 

Even with all that, he nearly did miss it and ended up sitting in middle class in any case. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was the still-bright image of Poe standing on the platform, hat raised in farewell, and the taste of strawberries that lingered on his lips.


End file.
